Gravity Pulls You Down
by Chocobo Goddess
Summary: A father's death is the catalyst for two bitter enemies to work together while the world closes in on every side. Did either of them honestly think they'd never see the other again? Not your typical LisaJackson story. I promise.
1. Speak of the Devil

**Disclaimer: Red Eye is not mine. I write this for fun, and because I can't get the idea out of my head.**

.-.-.-.-.

There had been a part of her that always expected him to come back someday.

The feeling had been aided, of course, by the fact that Jackson Rippner never actually made it to trial. He had been taken to the hospital, alive—barely, but alive—and then one day, just before he was to be released into the hands of the law, he had simply disappeared. No one had been hurt or killed, oddly, and there had been officers on duty at the time. It was as if he'd just opened up a rift in space and stepped through, leaving nothing behind but an empty hospital bed and a half-eaten tray of food. The police were stumped, the FBI claimed they had no leads, and after a while, his presence in Lisa Reisert's life was reduced to seeing him on the occasional Post Office 'wanted' posters.

She had a breakdown shortly after her harrowing encounter with him, a few days into her emergency time off from work. At her father's insistence, she finally joined a group that supposedly helped victims of crimes deal with the trauma in their lives. She walked out during the third meeting, partly because she didn't think she was really cut out for group therapy, but mostly because she had an epiphany.

She had survived.

Not only that, but she had survived twice. First her rape—God, but it was hard in the beginning to even speak that word aloud—which had made her retreat into herself for two years, and then the fateful flight from Texas to Florida, seated beside a madman who threatened everything she loved.

So now, here she was, alive, whole, scarred but healing. She had gone home the night of that last support meeting and fixed dinner, eaten, turned on the television to watch whatever was on. Fifteen minutes into that, she broke down for the last time. Lisa wept loudly, angrily, unabashedly for the pain she'd suffered. For a solid hour she sobbed, drenching her sleeve and a throw pillow from the couch.

But when she was done, she was done. The movie was still on; she watched the rest of it without seeing or hearing. She would never be able to recall later just what it had been about, but she did come out of that night with a single thought:

She had won.

The next day, Lisa got up, took a shower, dressed comfortably, and called the hotel to announce that she was quitting. She would not, could not let herself fall into the old routine again, would not bow and scrape to abusive guests, would not deal with the myriad problems a highly-rated hotel managed to have, all while keeping a smile on her pretty face. That same day, she contacted Charles Keefe's office in Maryland and applied to work on his staff. He spoke with her himself and hired her before the end of the phone call.

It had been hard, leaving her father, her hometown, for the far colder, far older city of Annapolis. Still, she realized that she needed a true new start. Miami would simply not do. There were too many things that would remind her, weaken her, when what she really needed was a way to put it all behind her for good. Then, and only then, would she return to the place she'd been born, stronger, sturdier, more able to face her demons.

.-.-.-.-.

Two months passed, then five, then nine, then suddenly it was a year, two, three. Lisa returned to Miami from time to time, visited her father and had lunch with Cynthia, caught up with them and then went back to work up North. She turned twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, spent her birthdays in different places, with different people; her father, her mother, her job.

That last birthday, it had been necessary for her to stay in Maryland. Keefe had become very popular in his time as Director of Homeland Security; somehow he had become nominated to run for President. His party supported him wholeheartedly, and he was usually found somewhere at the top of the pre-campaign polls as the top pick for the upcoming race. Lisa went from coordinating his office and staff to coordinating dinners, speeches, public appearances. She would smile to herself from time to time as her skills in hotel management were translated into soothing ruffled feathers of disgruntled lobbyists, visiting dignitaries who barely spoke English, and endless media personnel. Instead of draining her, however, she loved the job. She felt like her presence on the team of hundreds actually made a difference, both to Keefe and to the world. After all, she was coordinating the campaign for the race to America's highest office. His success would be her success.

In the years since her breakdown, Lisa ceased to think about Jackson Rippner entirely. Her life was too full, her work too busy, her time to precious to waste on self-pity and worry. In fact, she might have gone through the rest of her life without ever thinking about him again, save for one very big, very terrible event that threw a wrench into her new plans for her life.

Her father was found in his home, murdered.

Lisa came very close to losing it once more. Instead, she channeled her grief into anger, fury at the people who would do such a thing to such a good man. She allowed herself to cry, to be upset, but only for a moment. Once the police who had come to give her the bad news had left, she began to pace the floor of her living room, thinking of what she would have to do next.

She would need time off from work, that much was a given. She would fly down to Miami, meet her mother for the funeral, would have to go through his house—her house, she realized. The thought nearly sent her back over the edge into despair, and it was only by the strength of her will that she held it together.

As she packed, she went over things in her mind, her hands almost absently reaching into her closet and neatly folding her most somber clothes into her suitcase. Someone had murdered Joe Reisert quite deliberately; a single shot to the back of his head and a complete lack of any sign of struggle confirmed that he had been taken by surprise. It was the theory of the police that the killer was a professional. There were no traces of who it might have been.

And that was what brought her to think of the only killer she knew, the one who was still at large, the one she had forced from her mind for the past three years.

The phone rang, and she jumped. She recognized a little twang in her heart that it would not possibly be her father calling as he usually did, every day. Pushing down that piercing sadness and feeding it into the incinerator that was her fury, she crossed the room and picked up the handset.

She had barely drawn breath to say 'hello' when a voice she acutely remembered spoke first.

"I didn't do it, Leese."

Lisa felt her grip tighten on the phone as though it was his neck. "How dare you—"

"It wasn't me," he repeated calmly, interrupting her. His breath rasped, a reminder of what she'd done to him. "I didn't do it, Leese, but I know who did."

The fire in her heart flared, then cooled at his last statement. He seemed to be waiting patiently as she pulled herself back into shape, staring sightlessly at her own eyes in the mirror. "Why are you calling me, then?" she said at length. "If you're not guilty of it, why not just stay away?" To herself, she silently added, _from me?_

"Leese, Leese." He chuckled, and she hated him for gaining some perverse pleasure out of her ordeal. "Why don't you meet me in Miami? You are coming, aren't you? We'll get coffee, talk about old times, catch up, share info. Sound good?"

"I would rather—" she stopped herself. What if he was telling the truth?

He seemed to read her mind. In a graver tone, as if she'd struck a nerve, he said quietly, "I can't lie to you, Leese. Never have been able to manage it completely. I mean it." He took a long, wheezing breath and went on with more of his original smooth, cocksure tone. "You have caller ID; use it. Call me on this line when you get in, and we'll talk."

"You bastard, you—" She swore to herself. He had hung up before she could respond at all. Suddenly, she couldn't bear to look at the phone in her hand any longer, and she hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and the battery panel broke off, ricocheting in the opposite angle from the rest of the handset. Lisa remained where she was, seething, appalled that she might possibly need the help of someone she had worked so hard to forget.

Then her anger, too, was quenched. She had a flight to catch, a funeral to arrange and attend, and an adversary to meet. She retrieved the broken phone and replaced the battery cover, then checked the LED panel for the number he'd used. With it safely transferred to her cell phone, Lisa finished packing and forced herself to keep going.

After all, where else could she go but forward?


	2. And the Devil Appears

**Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. Writing for fun.**

.-.-.-.-.

Lisa had half expected to see him when she found her seat on the plane. Instead, she sat beside a sleepy older man who spent most of the time snoring while she gazed out the window at the rising sun. By the time she arrived in Miami, it was mid-morning. She moved through the airport in a daze, not quite trusting that she'd actually gotten there. Her father's death was still too soon for it to be real to her, and she kept checking her cell for any missed calls, as if his ring would sound at any moment.

The humidity hit her as she stepped outside just as a wave of grief overcame her. Lisa hailed a cab and tossed her suitcase and carryon in through the back door. She followed them, collapsing gratefully on the worn bench seat and its fake leather covering. "The Lux Atlantic," she managed to get out before she dissolved into tears. The cabbie pretended not to notice, and drove on.

It was a thirty minute drive, with traffic, so Lisa had plenty of time to regain her composure. Besides, even if her eyes were red from crying, who could blame her? She paid the driver, retrieved her luggage, and took a deep breath. The Lux Atlantic Hotel towered over her, all glass and curves. She had never stayed there as a guest; whenever she came home, she stayed with her father. Right now, though, his house was cordoned off by the police, and even if they hadn't done that, she could not bring herself to go there just yet. While she waited for her mother to arrive from Texas, she'd decided, she would stay in luxury, in the only remaining familiar place in all of Miami.

Lisa mentally kicked herself into a smile, and went in.

.-.-.-.-.

Bereavement for a parent, according to Keefe, was a month. He had insisted after seeing what a workaholic Lisa could be, and he liked her too much to let her drown herself in work too early. Lisa had tried to argue, but he would not accept her back in his office until December, or longer if need be. As it was, he had noted sympathetically, she would thank him when she had time to reflect with her family over Thanksgiving.

So she went through the motions of planning the funeral, contacting her remaining, scattered family, attending the wake, the service, the burial. At one point, as she stood steadying her crying mother and the minister intoned a heartfelt eulogy over the grave, she caught a glimpse of a familiar face across the crowd of mourners, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses the only barrier between the world and his far-too-familiar eyes.

She had expected to feel anger, expected to have to wrestle with the fury she'd held tightly controlled all this time, but when she saw his expression…there was real sadness, real regret. He looked troubled, genuinely sorry as he gazed down at the rich mahogany of Joe Reisert's coffin. Then he looked up, perhaps sensing her study, and suddenly his confident mask dropped back into place, the faint insolent twist to his lips, the heavy-lidded perusal she remembered with utter clarity. He inclined his head to her, acknowledging her, then turned and strolled away, hands in his pockets.

Lisa might have hated him, except for the naked emotion she'd glimpsed before he saw her. It gave her pause and made her stop to think that perhaps he was telling the truth, that he'd had nothing to do with the murder of the most important person in her life.

Her mother grasped her hand. "Lisa," she said, catching her daughter's attention, "Let's go. The service is over."

The last word came out querulously, and Lisa returned her thoughts to the immediate situation. "Okay," she murmured, grasping her mother's thin shoulder tightly, "We'll get something to eat."

She cast one final glance over her shoulder at the flower-strewn casket, the file of Joe's friends and family, then past even them to where Jackson had gone. He had disappeared once again. Lisa shook her head and leaned on her mother, who leaned on her, and they walked away from Joe for the last time.

.-.-.-.-.

Her mother had to leave two days later, only after extracting a promise from Lisa that they would spend Thanksgiving together. Lisa got the feeling that her parents had never truly stopped loving each other, though they had been unable to live under the same roof for years. She wondered what it was like, to feel so strongly for someone that you understood you could never coexist.

It hit her that she did know to an extent, though her still-grieving heart was unwilling to examine the idea further. First, she had to get back to normal, and then she would call Jackson to find out just what he knew, and why the hell he would offer to help her.

.-.-.-.-.

A week after the funeral, Jackson called her. "I got tired of waiting," he said without preamble, interrupting her as usual as she tried to mumble a greeting.

She was still in bed, drained, tired from tossing all night. "I was going to call you when I was ready," she said peevishly, tucking the sheet around her where she half-sat up, propped by the overstuffed pillows. The clock at her bedside read ten fifteen a.m.

He sighed. The wheeze was less pronounced this time. "You don't have the luxury of lounging around. You'll have to make some decisions very soon, and the more you dally, the fewer your choices become." He sounded annoyed. "I won't offer again."

"All right," she snapped. "Where?"

She could almost hear the smirk. "Starbucks, on the corner across from the hotel?"

"Sure." The word came out dead, dull. "I'll be there in half an hour."

He hung up without a goodbye. Lisa glared at the phone, then let her arm drop to the coverlet. She had just agreed to meet with the one person who had once tried to destroy her life, to destroy her.

The world was a strange place. She flung the covers back and hopped out of bed. It would take five minutes from her door to Starbucks; she had twenty-five minutes to make herself presentable.

It wouldn't do to meet him looking like she'd fallen apart.


	3. Coffee

**Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. This is for fun and my sanity.**

.-.-.-.-.

When she pushed open the door to the coffee shop, the late-morning rush was already in full swing. Lisa scanned the place for a sign of where he could be as she got in line. It wasn't a large place; where was he?

"Took a little time with our appearance, did we?" A faint rasp lay under the mocking words, less than she'd expected and yet enough to send a triumphant thrill through her. She turned to see Jackson standing beside her in line, holding two cups decorated with the green and white mermaid logo. He looked over the tops of his sunglasses at her, taking in her conservative-label jeans, the pale blue shell, the navy linen blazer she'd put on over it. "Though you seem to be a little more…sensible than before."

They stood gauging each other for a moment, then Lisa snorted. "I always have been."

"Really." His eyes said he believed otherwise, though he merely took a sip from one of the cups and held the other out for her. "Come on, let's walk and talk."

She eyed the drink warily, but accepted it and followed. Something told her he hadn't drugged it, or poisoned it, or whatever else his twisted mind might come up with, so she took a careful sip. Of course it was just how she liked it; two sugars, a bit of cream, a dark roast that she'd started drinking since moving away to Maryland. It disturbed her that Jackson had apparently been keeping tabs on her all this time.

They stepped out into the sunlight, strolling on the sidewalk without speaking. Today, Jackson wore a dark grey suit with a surprisingly hip lime-green shirt and no tie. His sunglasses were heavily tinted, but she could still feel his sharp gaze through them, knew he was taking in every detail of her appearance, her bearing, her mental state.

"You're depressed," he said at last, and she sent him a withering glare. It made him laugh. "Would you like to know how I can tell?"

"I'd rather not waste my time on things I already know." She grimaced as though the coffee was bitter. "Of course I'm depressed. My father was recently murdered, my mother is a wreck, I'm under stress from work, and on top of that, I now have to deal with you again. Not having a great month so far."

Jackson tossed his cup into a nearby trash can, suddenly serious. "I was sorry to hear about your father. I know you don't believe me," he added at her skeptical expression, "But it is true. Joe was a good man."

Lisa whirled on him, not caring if anyone saw or heard them. "Don't you dare call him Joe, Jackson. You used his life as leverage against me, threatened us, tried to kill him. You were not his friend. You were _nothing_ to us." The rage burned in her, begged to be let loose upon him. "So don't you dare, Jackson. Don't you _dare_ talk about my father like you knew him."

He endured the tirade with a dispassionate gaze, then leaned in close, braving her wrath and invading her personal space with ease. "Why don't we go talk somewhere less public, okay, _Leese_?" He stressed her name with the venom she remembered, the word filtered through his clenched teeth as if biting off each syllable at the end.

Instead of backing down, she replied with equal distaste, "Sure, _Jack_."

Was every conversation of theirs going to be half made up of taut silences and staring contests?

In the end, he backed down first, though he covered it well by casting a bored, "Come on," over his shoulder at her. He hailed a cab and held the door open for her, suddenly a gentleman with a sarcastic bent. "After you."

She wanted to hurl the coffee at him, but she thought better of it and threw her own cup away as well before getting into the car. She wondered if she was insane, if she had somehow managed to lose her mind during the course of her grief. She wanted nothing to do with him, she was sure. Nothing he had to say could possibly be of use to her, could it? Why bother contacting her after three years, if he had nothing to do with the slaying of her father?

Jackson slid into the seat beside her, all smiles once more. It was uncanny, how he could switch seamlessly from one emotion to another. His talents were wasted; he should be winning Oscars, not planning coups. He rattled off an address to the driver that Lisa didn't quite catch, then sat back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't look at her, choosing instead to watch the buildings and people slip by, block by city block.

Even at this time of the year, Miami was hot; at midday, the road ahead shimmered like water and the cars coming toward them seemed to melt up out of the ground. Lisa chewed on her lower lip as she watched the scenery change through her own window, the urban professionals, the retirees, the homeless, the drunks, the gang members who always looked to her as though they couldn't decide on how to dress, one pant leg up, one black shoe, hats askew. The normality of the city seemed somehow wrong and right all at once; strange how other peoples' lives went on even when hers was at a standstill.

"…eese. Leese. Lisa." Jackson's voice snapped her out of her daze. She turned to see him waiting with the door open, his hand outstretched to her. "We're here."

She ignored his hand and got out on her own. The cab pulled away, and she looked up at the building they'd stopped at. It stretched upward, dwarfing the surrounding towers despite being far from the tallest structure in the city. They seemed to have ended up in a quieter neighborhood somewhere far from the Lux Atlantic. "Where are we?" She asked, half to herself.

"My place," he said, grinning when she rounded on him once more. "Honestly, you are so paranoid. What reason do I have to hurt you?"

"What reason did you have to hurt me before?" she shot back.

He sobered. "That was business."

"To you." She shook her head. "I'm not going in there."

"I wasn't inviting you to." She barely caught the half-spoken, _yet_. He pointed across the street from where they stood, and now Lisa could see the small park and the water beyond. She felt her face grow warm, made herself shake off the feeling of embarrassment at her assumption.

As she followed him, watching for cars, she realized he'd been throwing her off balance from the moment he'd called her that morning. Lisa was sick of it, and she vowed not to let him do it again. Enough of her life had been taken up by trying to regain her footing that she would not let it go on like that anymore.

The park was more of a grassy lawn between two architectural monstrosities, holdovers from the 70s when their designers had been of the opinion that a utilitarian building needed a utilitarian shell. Some architect had managed to inject a bit of personality by adding a curved turret and a swooping stone staircase, but it felt like a frivolity, not an intrinsic part of the whole.

The park began at the base of the stairs and rolled down a steep hill, to end in a concrete-and-chain barrier. From there, it dropped off in a man-made cliff to a quiet, sandy beach. In a city where beachfront property was at a premium, Lisa was surprised to see any inch of coastline remain unused.

"We're going down there," Jackson said when they reached a break in the barrier. A tree that grew from the edge of the grass marked a set of dusty stairs leading down to the beach. Once more, Jackson offered his hand to help her down. Lisa was thankful that she'd worn jeans and low boots instead of a skirt and heels; living in Maryland _had_ changed her style to the more sensible end of the spectrum, despite her claim that it had always been that way. She was able to avoid taking his hand again, though this time he seemed offended.

_Good,_ she thought, _Make him have to find his footing for once._

She brushed past and descended ahead of him. It was funny, how they were alone in such a secluded place, and yet she was not afraid, was not worried, though he was the most dangerous man she'd ever met. He could attack her, strangle her, kill her, and no one would know.

Where was her fear?

It was powerful, empowering, this realization that he did not have a hold over her, that he did not control her. Lisa was not afraid of Jackson Rippner. She might have said it aloud, except that he would hear and try to prove her wrong. It gave her an upper hand she hadn't realized she possessed. She was sure he was going to try his damnedest to make her fear him, though.

"Now," he said in his ruined voice from behind her, the roughness more pronounced as the timbre deepened, "Why don't we talk about why I called you?"


	4. A Walk on the Beach

**Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye.**

.-.-.-.-.

"So talk," said Lisa. She turned to face him and crossed her arms, forming a barrier between her and Jackson. "Enlighten me."

The shadows of the leaves on the tree nearby danced and dappled the shoulders of Jackson's suit. Behind Lisa, twenty or so yards away, the surf whispered against the glistening sand, rasping in its own way as if to mock Jackson's ruined voice.

He took a deep, wheezing breath. "You need to learn a little Poli-Sci of the Underworld before you can understand what I'm talking about later." As he spoke, he began to stroll along the loose sand toward the water, not checking to see if she followed. "There are several main groups that form the center of all high crime and international espionage in the world. Terrorists, the Mafia, drug cartels, coup organizers, weapons dealers—they're all part of an intricate web that makes up, essentially, an outlaw version of INTERPOL. Got it so far?"

She nodded, matching him step for step. He took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. The sun was high and hot above them, burning off the humidity from earlier. Lisa considered doing the same, but she didn't care to have him make some snide remark about her outfit again. She would rather hear what he had to say.

"So," he went on, "the groups are a lot like conglomerate corporations, run by boards with presidents, treasurers, et cetera. Dummy companies are usually set up to act as the groups' public faces, lending them power on the stock markets, giving them legitimacy and even helping them influence how the politics of the world work without having to shed a single drop of blood." He grinned toothily at her. "We're not all savages, you know."

"You could have fooled me," she said, impatient to hear what this all had to do with her father. The lesson so far had created a sinking feeling in her gut. "Go on, already."

Hiding the smile, he shrugged. "Sometimes, we have to fold our dummy companies when it looks like the FBI or CIA are getting close to figuring things out. Remember Enron? WorldCom?" At her nod, he gestured as if to say, 'there you go'. "My former employer owned Enron; they were particularly proud of how it's turning out. It's the biggest smokescreen in recent history. No one suspects what the company really hid; everyone's on a witch hunt for people who were prepped to take the fall, while the real powers walk away whistling."

How could he smile when there were all those people, out of work and out of their retirement savings, without realizing they had been part of a scheme all along? Lisa was about to berate him for being so cavalier about the lives of thousands of human beings, when she caught something else he'd said. "Wait—_former_ employer?" She stared at him. "You mean you don't work for them anymore? I don't get it. How did you get out of the hospital, then?"

"Oh, they made sure I got out with no fuss or attention," he said grimly. "They got me out just in time to keep me from the law, then gave me a neat little severence package and sent me on my way." He seemed uncomfortable about something, though Lisa was in no mood to offer sympathy.

"That was it?" she raised a brow. "They didn't kill you? Just fired you like you worked for the bank or something?"

"Yes," he replied, and was silent for a while.

Lisa might have prodded him for more, but she needed to digest what she'd heard so far. If he wasn't working for anyone, then what was he doing? More to the point, she still hadn't figured out what he wanted with her. She didn't bother trying to read him; he wore only mask after mask after mask, and rarely gave anything away.

The sand was warm even through her boots. Lisa could feel the salt moisture on her face from the constant breeze from the sea. It lent an air of calm, though she knew she should feel anything but. It seemed wrong to be walking out here on such a bright, sunny day with him. Her memories of the last time they'd met were anything but happy.

Of course, that had been a beautiful day, too, once they were off the plane.

Tired of spending time with him, she finally did nudge his arm. The very act of touching him made her skin crawl, but she had the feeling he wouldn't hear her if she only spoke. "You're not finished. Tell me the rest."

As though he hadn't just been lost in thought, his normal confidence returned. "I wanted to make sure you understood everything up until now." He spoke with a condescending smirk that made Lisa's blood boil.

She had had enough. With a sudden grab, she caught the green shirt by its collar and yanked him down until he was nose-to-nose with her. "Jackson," she enunciated slowly, "I am not out here with you because I like you. I want to find my father's killer and put his ghost to rest. I want you out of my life, and the only reason I am even standing here now is because YOU told me you can help me. So far, you're not helping." She stood in his path, bristling. "So tell me what you brought me here to say, and then if you'll pardon me, I'll be off. Okay, Jack?"

He scowled down at her. "Don't piss me off, Leese. I almost killed you once; don't tempt me again."

Instead of letting go, she tugged on the shirt harder. Summoning every ounce of vitriol she could manage, she replied, "I think you have your facts wrong, Jack. _I_ almost killed _you_. You only tried to kill me, and you failed pretty spectacularly, I think."

His hand clamped around her wrist in a crushing grip and he tore the sunglasses from his face, turning the full fury of his icy eyes upon her. His jacket landed on the sand, forgotten. "I think you need to let go, Leese. Now."

Half of her wanted to quail under that fierce anger, but the other, newer half of her stood her ground instead. "Make me."

His eyes filled with wild glee at her words. His first move was to step back, pulling her and trying to get her off-balance. She was ready for this, though, and stepped forward, then threw her weight back, digging in her heels. He hadn't been prepared for her to work his tactic to her advantage, and he staggered forward. Catching himself, he swept a leg around to ruin her footing while he pushed on her shoulders. It did the job this time. Lisa found herself falling to the ground, but she never relinquished her grip on his shirt. Together, they toppled to the sand, him on top, knocking the breath from her when he landed.

The moment they were down, she was working hard to get him off her and he was working hard to stay on. Lisa's self-defense classes had helped her be faster, to do more damage, but Jackson was stronger than she was, and apparently more skilled at subduing an opponent.

When he had her wrists, one in each hand and clamped down into the sand on either side of her head, he loomed over her. His breath came in harsh wheezes now, as if he had to fight for each one. "You're better at this," he gasped, "Than you used to be." He spoke with something like pride, oddly.

Lisa spit sand from her lips and glared up at him. "Funny, I was thinking you were worse."

He leaned in close, not quite close enough for her to reach him if she suddenly decided to try a headbutt, but enough for her to hear him when he said softly, "Don't make a stupid mistake, Leese. You are this close to regretting your cocky little speeches today." His eyes, uncovered now, traveled over her face, taking in every detail as if he wanted to miss nothing. His hair fell in disarray, soft messy spikes framing his face. As she had once before, on the plane when they'd last met, she wondered how such pleasant, delicate features could conceal such a malicious soul. Only his eyes gave away the monster he really was.

"Let me up," she demanded. He answered her by pushing down on her wrists until his hands were buried in the sand with them.

"Not yet." His study continued past her face, over her shoulders, down, lingering on the spot that was hidden by her shirt, the scar that still marked her from the other man who'd tried to destroy her. It was there that his perusal ended, his gaze fixated on the mark he could not see but that they both knew was there. Lisa stopped moving, held her breath without realizing it. Yet again, the expressions that crossed his face were hardly what she remembered ever seeing on him. Jackson was supposed to be emotionless, cold—but if he was, why was he watching her with…what? Regret again, and—craving? Longing? She prayed not. There wasn't enough time in their lives from now until their deaths for her to trust him enough to forgive him.

He panted still, the hiss that marked every breath, every word he spoke growing fainter but never going away. "Now," he said, dragging his attention back to her face, "Let's move on, 'kay?" His words were careless, light, but his face was deadly serious. Lisa nodded.

Jackson stood, pulling her up by her wrists and setting her on her feet. When he released her, she rubbed the skin where he'd grasped her, brushed off the sand that had imprinted itself on her hands. He went to retrieve his coat and glasses, then returned looking as though nothing had happened save for his still-messy hair.

"So now you know more than anyone who's not involved has ever heard," he said as though he hadn't been interrupted. "I shouldn't have to tell you that if you happen to mention any of this to anyone, I will kill you and whoever you tell. No trying this time, Leese; I will do it without hesitation."

She believed him. "Go on." Thankfully, her voice remained steady.

"Here's where you become important. Your boss's Presidential opponent has someone on staff who also used to work for my old company. A former co-worker, you might say." He bared his teeth, though whether he was grinning or grimacing, Lisa wasn't sure. "And I have information that my colleague's past is too close to being revealed for anyone in my business to be comfortable."

"So?"

"So," he mimicked, "I need to remove him. I need your help."

Her blood ran cold at the meaning behind that statement. "I don't understand."

"I think you do, Leese. You are going to help me kill him."

Lisa couldn't listen to any more. She wondered if she was having some kind of delusional flashback. He couldn't be serious. Even if the target this time wasn't upstanding Charles Keefe or his loving family, but instead another snake like Jackson, she couldn't stand by and let a man be killed.

On top of it all, there were the repercussions to think about: the scandal for Keefe's opponent, Michael Rowe; the fallout in the press; the realization that if she did help Jackson, and someone found out, she could be tried as an accessory to murder.

She physically shook herself and turned to stalk away. "Like hell I will," she shot back. She heard his footsteps behind her in the dunes and she quickened her pace, keeping to the harder-packed sand near where the waves rolled ashore.

He caught up with her, caught her arm and spun her around. "You have to. You don't have much of a choice."

"Let go of me."

"Leese—"

"I said," she growled, "Let. Go."

"Listen to me," he rasped. "If we do this, we're saved. Both of us walk away—I get my job back and the protection my company provides, and you get to keep your job, your life. Don't let your new little womanly empowerment thing get in the way of some good common sense. Because if we don't do this, you and me, we are both going to be very, very dead."

Something made her stop and peer up at his eyes for the truth. What she saw there shook her to her core.

Jackson Rippner, the man who had terrorized her in the past, who tried to control her now, was not simply exaggerating a point.

Jackson Rippner was afraid.


	5. Third Time's the Charm

**Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. This is for my sanity.**

.-.-.-.-.

"You're serious," she breathed. He nodded, relaxing a little—which meant that he wasn't ready for her hand to strike him fully across the face, palm open. He reeled backward, then recovered and prepared to retaliate. She stopped him by stalking toward him, forcing him back. "You bastard! You—you—I can't believe this. I did nothing to you, _nothing_, and you waltz in and out of my life repeatedly to tell me that someone I care about is going to die, or that I will, or that you will, and you expect me to just go along with it?"

Lisa didn't halt her advance, and soon Jackson found himself back on the surf-washed area, a trickle of water rushing over the tops of his shoes. He stopped backing away and turned the tables, using his somewhat larger frame to bully her into retreating. "That's exactly what I expect, Leese," he growled. "I expect you to think about those very people and understand that this time, it's not me who will make the call whether they live or die."

"Don't give me that," she shot back. "Jackson, you tried this with me before. In case you didn't notice at the funeral, I don't have much in the way of friends and family. Once they're gone, they're gone, and you won't have anything to threaten me with. I will not put the safety of my country below my own. Not anymore."

He barked a laugh, incredulous. "Are you a little soldier, now? You think your sacrifice of the few is going to be for the betterment of the many?" He sneered. "You're wrong, Leese. No one will know, no one will care. Your remaining loved ones will die one at a time, probably in different and ordinary ways, and no one will know. And this time, I will die with you, and I'm not ready to do that just yet."

"Your problems are _not_ my problems." Lisa crossed her arms again, glaring. "I'm not going to help you kill someone."

"If you don't, you'll be risking more than you think," he replied. "Keefe will still die, too." He thrust his fingers into his hair, expelling a heavy breath. "Listen," he went on in a suddenly more reasonable tone, "Will you at least listen to the rest?"

She raised a brow, settling all her weight on one hip. "I'm all ears."

Jackson scowled. "Stop the childish act and pay attention." He visibly reined in his temper, then spoke. "The problem that you don't understand is that there is a group we in the business like to call the 'cleanup crew'. Can you guess what they do, Leese?"

"Windows?" She asked sarcastically.

"No," he grated, annoyed, "They are a team of fucking _hit men_, Leese, very well-trained and well-equipped hit men. They clean up the messes left behind by failed jobs." He paused to let that sink in. "And the job, my job, the one _you_ fucked up for me, is the one they are coming to clean up."

Lisa wanted to retort, to say something about how he'd shattered her life and not the other way around, but she found herself unable to speak. Her mouth had gone dry at the idea of her entire family being stalked by a dozen Jacksons. Jacksons with better aim, if what he'd told her was true.

As he always did, he read her thoughts. "Not just your family. They'll be going after them first, of course, then your friends—remember your buddy Cynthia was in on the job, too—and then they'll go after Keefe, his wife, his kids. That part will be high-profile, probably, but the rest of us?" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I don't even exist. No one will even be able to identify me. I don't have the protection of my company anymore, and that means you don't, either."

There it was again, that flicker of fear. Lisa shut her mouth and waited. Three years had gone by so quietly, free of retribution or any disturbance in her life. At first, Jackson's claim of protection had seemed laughable, but the fear, the real worry in his eyes made her pause. Had the peace since that awful day been aided by someone who watched over her?

Despite the heat of the day, Lisa shivered. "Why now?" She asked, voice flat, tone even. "I met you so long ago. Why is this happening now?"

He sent her a pitying look. "I already told you. It wouldn't have been an issue except that the law is about to find out way too much about my organization. This might not have happened if the job had been carried out properly." He shrugged. "Maybe it would, I don't know, but if it had, I wouldn't be on the outside like this."

"You're lost, aren't you?" She marveled at the thought. "You really don't know where to go now, do you?" Lisa couldn't stop the bemused smile from widening her lips. "I can't believe it."

Jackson lost his fight with his temper. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Leese." He stalked up to her, stiff-legged, jaw clenched. His hand snaked out and caught her chin, fingers cruelly digging into her skin, making her cry out in pain. He drew her face to his, hissing, "Maybe it was a mistake to call you. I should have let them kill you without the warning."

"Hey, what's going on there?"

As one, Jackson and Lisa started, then turned to look in the direction of the voice. A uniformed policeman stood on the stairs, eyeing them warily with his hand lightly resting on his sidearm. Jackson's grip loosened, and Lisa took the chance to pull back. He risked a warning look to her.

Lisa shot him a disgusted glare. Keeping her eyes on him, she called back, "Nothing, Officer." She rubbed her jaw where Jackson's fingers had caught her. "We're just having a disagreement. It's fine."

The policeman seemed uncertain. "Are you sure, Miss?"

_Are you sure you're fine? _ Her father's favorite question echoed in her mind; Lisa had to push down the sudden grief that roiled within her. "Really, I'm fine." Was she actually sending him away? Did she really want to be left alone with the chaotic Jackson? Was she missing her last chance to possibly put him behind bars, to be rid of him forever? Lisa could practically feel his tension from where she stood; perhaps he was wondering the same things.

"Well," the officer said, hesitating.

"We were about to go anyway, weren't we, Jack?" She sent him a look that read, _don't argue_, then somehow managed a breezy smile. "It's fine, officer, but thank you for your concern."

He looked from Jackson to Lisa and then back again. Lisa felt like her face would freeze into her fake expression—Jackson wore a similar one—but then the policeman nodded and turned to go.

When he had disappeared from sight, they let out matching sighs of relief. "Lisa," said Jackson, very quietly, as if the patrolman could still hear them, "Have I ever told you that you should consider a career in management?"

"Don't push your luck," she warned. "I should have handed your ass over to him."

He grinned. "But you didn't."

No, she hadn't, and that disturbed her.

He saved her from having to reply by walking off with a smirk. "Why don't we go get something to eat? I'm starving. Up for lunch? Cuban?" He sighed. "It's been a while since I was in Miami. I wonder if Mona's is still there…"

"Jackson—Jackson!" She hurried to catch up to him. "Wait, you just walk away like that? After telling me everyone is going to die?"

They had reached the wall by then; Jackson turned on the third step to look down at her. He was half-silhouetted against the bright sun and the rustling leaves of the lone tree. Lisa had to shade her eyes against the light.

He chuckled softly. "Everyone is going to die, Leese," he murmured, "It's just a matter of how and when we do." His hand stretched out for the third time that day, offering help once more. _Three strikes and you're out_, it seemed to say to her.

Or was it _third time's the charm_?

Lisa took it, and hoped for the latter.

.-.-.-.-.

**_AN: Hey, y'all—many, many thanks for the great reviews! Some of these are the best reviews I've ever received. I love it when you tell me about details you noticed, since I put them in there because they bring me joy. :) I have the next chapter mostly done, but it needs a good ending, so I'll have that up in the next couple days. Ciao!_**


	6. Boliche and a 45

**Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. Mr. Craven, if you're reading, please call me. I'm happy to negotiate. XD**

.-.-.-.-.

Jackson called another cab to take them to a restaurant he remembered. As they rode in the back seat, Lisa took some time to mull over what she'd learned. Her head hurt, spun with the convoluted logic he'd presented to her, the knowledge of what really happened to Enron (which was largely inconsequential at the moment), and the worry of what would happen to her family and friends if she didn't do what he'd asked her to do.

Which was to help him kill someone for knowledge that that someone might possibly share someday. Lisa decided not to think at all until after she got something into her stomach.

For his part, Jackson said nothing further about it as they rode. He was looking out his own window, either lost in thought or simply loath to discuss business—Lisa was dismayed to realize she was also thinking of it as such—when other ears were present. She frankly didn't want to discuss it at all. She wanted to go back to a time when she hadn't met Jackson, when she was safe in her life and her job and her routine, when her father was still alive and called her every night.

"I meant what I said earlier." Jackson spoke, startling her from her reverie. She looked over at him, questioning. The smile he gave her this time was a little sad, a strange expression to see but one he had worn before, at the funeral. "I was sorry about your father, Lisa. I didn't want him involved anymore." He turned back to the window as if he couldn't look at her and say what he wanted to say. "You told me I didn't know him, but I did. I figured he wouldn't want to tell you about it."

"About what?" Lisa felt her heart constrict. "What are you talking about?"

Only his eyes moved, watching her from their corners, gauging her reaction. "He came to visit me when I was in the hospital; he must have known someone or was able to get special treatment because I had been his attacker." He chuckled ruefully. "He was the first person I had seen who wasn't in a uniform of some kind. At first, when he saw I was awake, he started to go, but I called him back. He said later he had been coming to make sure I was secure, that I wasn't going to go after you ever again."

"He could have ensured that if he'd aimed a couple inches more to the right."

Jackson closed his mouth and a dozen expressions vied for dominance. In the end, Lisa was unsurprised to see that his professional mask was the one that he chose. His mouth smiled softly, but his eyes showed the icy anger that she recognized most. Instead of dignifying her insult with a comment, he returned to his perusal of the passing city until they reached their destination.

The restaurant turned out to be a family-run place, owned, Jackson told her with a detached air, by a husband and wife who had sneaked into the country from Cuba over twenty years before. Now their son and daughter-in-law took care of the day to day operations, while they gave shelter to other illegal immigrants who had come to the United States to hide from Castro. Lisa asked him rather snidely if he knew all this from spying on them, and he looked annoyed.

"No," he said curtly as they took a seat at a window table, "I know because I used to eat here all the time. Try the _boliche_."

That he needed to eat humanized him a little too much for her taste. "I don't have a lot of patience, Jackson. Let's just eat, then tell me what I need to know so I can figure out this mess. I do not condone—" her voice dropped to a whisper, "—killing a man. For the record."

"There's no choice. Donald Connolly has to disappear before the FBI figures out what information he hides."

It was the first time he'd mentioned the man's name, and Lisa got that sinking feeling again. She knew who Don Connolly was. He held a similar position to hers in the opposite party. "Don used to be a—a manager, like you?" She couldn't picture it. He was the antithesis of Jackson; quiet, even shy, a little geeky, certainly nowhere near as confident.

"I never said he was a manager," Jackson replied in a wounded tone. "I just said he worked for the Company. He was an assistant. A secretary."

"Ahh," was all she said for the rest of the meal, and they ate in silence.

The food was good, she had to admit. Somewhere in the area of the kitchen, a radio played Latin music at a volume that must have been blasting, but where they sat, it served to provide a certain authenticity as if to enhance the Cuban-home atmosphere. Under normal circumstances, Lisa might have lingered, but now she wanted to get out from under Jackson's gaze, wanted to think about what to do and how to do it. She needed to tell Keefe, that much was certain, but how? And when? She wouldn't be back in Maryland until she'd finished taking care of her father's house. The whole thing was giving her a headache. "Dammit."

Jackson tossed some twenties on the table and raised a brow. "Problems?"

"Yeah. Mine seem to start with the letter J." Lisa rubbed her temples as she stood, then she turned to face him. "How long do we have before the cleaners—"

"Cleanup crew," he corrected, and she glared at him. He shrugged.

"—before the cleanup crew starts picking off more of my family?"

He looked uncomfortable. His hands were in his pockets, the jacket draped carelessly over one arm, but the set of his shoulders gave his uneasiness away. "I don't know. I lack the information I would normally have if I was still with the Company." He shook his head. "I'm on my own."

"Well, why don't you go find out, and when you know more, call me. You have my number." Lisa walked past him out the door and onto the sidewalk without another word. She had things to do and she was tired of being in his company.

As she walked, she heard his footsteps hurrying along the pavement behind her. She knew what was coming. _Five, four, three, two…_

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He caught up and fell into step with her, obviously angry. Again. His hand grabbed her just below her elbow; to the casual observer, he was a man escorting his pretty girlfriend. Lisa felt like her bones would be crushed. She knew she'd have a bruise there either way.

She sent him a wintry smile. "I have to go through my father's house. The police called me yesterday to let me know that I could go in again. They…took care of the scene of his death, so I won't have to see it. I just want to put some things in order before I head to Dallas for the holiday."

His eyes narrowed. "Do you have any idea how much danger you're in? How every moment you waste here brings someone else closer to dying _just like _your father? And what do you do when you learn what could happen—when you know what _will_ happen?" He gestured scornfully. "You make plans for Thanksgiving as though nothing has changed."

"Nothing _has_ changed!" She yanked her arm free. "As far as I know, you're messing around with my head again. No," she held up a hand, "I don't want to hear it. I have to think about what to do next, and damn if I'm not going to take care of my dad's things before I go running back to Maryland."

"You can't go back to Joe's right now anyway. I haven't checked it out yet."

"Dammit, Jackson!" She wanted to yell at him, but now there were people around. "Since when did my dad become 'Joe' to you? And since when did you start thinking you had any say in what I do and where I go?"

"Since I made a promise to him." He smirked a little when her mouth opened in shock. "I told you he and I talked a lot."

"Oh, no. No." Lisa shook her head, stepped back. "I don't want to hear this."

"Tough, Leese." Jackson's mouth set itself into a thin line. "You have to hear it. When I got out, just before I was officially unemployed, I made a special request that no action be taken against you, your dad, or anyone involved. It was my screwup, and to be frank, I was a little impressed that you took me down the way you did."

"How nice of you." She tried to push past him, but again he stopped her. She glanced around. No one seemed to even notice them; they were just another couple having a domestic argument in public. Nothing new in Miami.

"The thing is, he made me promise him I wouldn't let any harm of any kind—not just from my organization, but at all—come to you on top of all that." He snorted. "As if my word wasn't enough. But back to the issue: _Joe_ and I talked a lot over the last few years. Somehow he found me once I was out on my own. We just started talking one day, meeting for coffee or a drink, and it became a regular thing. So not to correct you, Leese, but I _did_ get to know him, and I _did_ consider him something very close to a friend. And I was very, very angry when I found out about his death."

Lisa drew breath to say something that she never got to say. Something hit her ear, like someone had flicked a pebble at her. Irritated beyond belief, she snapped her head in the direction it had come. She was stunned to see a small hole spiderwebbed in the side of the building she and Jackson had been standing beside; she'd been hit by a small piece of flying debris.

Jackson sprang into action, wrapping his hand around Lisa's upper arm and dragging her around the corner of the building. He pushed her against the wall and ordered her to stay put. She flattened herself against the painted concrete, watching the way they'd come. Had that been a stray bullet, or a deliberate shot? Someone had nearly killed her, and she hadn't even known until after the fact. Further down the block, someone screamed. An odd popping noise filled the air along with the screech of tires and the sound of metal being punctured.

She heard him mutter, "Stupid gangs," in nonchalant disgust, though he produced a .45 and checked it, comfortably handling the weapon like he'd been born with one. He noticed her watching him and met her eyes. "Given the circumstances, I think this is a little too convenient. Whatever it is, I'm not in the mood to get caught in the middle of what could be a legitimate shootout or a cover for the crew to hit us. Keep your head down."

"What are you going to do?"

His grin this time was a little rakish, a little too enthusiastic. It struck her that he thrived on this kind of thing the way some people thrived on the thrill of skydiving or base jumping. He moved close to her, causing her to back against the wall further. "Why, Leese," he said, still with that grin, his voice soft and dangerous, "I'm going to get us out of here."

.-.-.-.-.

They hugged the side of the building, heading toward the opposite side of the block. Jackson's idea was that if it was an actual gang war, the action would be fairly contained in a brief time and small area. If it wasn't, they'd be followed. He kept watch in both directions, hurrying Lisa along in front of him.

"Hold on," he said in a low voice when they reached the corner. "Stay behind me and keep your back to the wall." Without waiting for her response, he inched forward and scanned the exposed area beyond. Miami was an open city, with fewer high and narrow alleys than someplace like New York or Boston. The alley in which they now stood opened into a large granite-lined courtyard between this building and the next. At least a hundred yards separated them from the next available cover; for now, a dumpster hid them from view should anyone follow them.

Jackson scanned the area they could see, then carefully he crouched down and checked around the corner in the opposite direction. Satisfied, he withdrew and turned to her. "There's no one on the ground or within sight. We'll—"

A smattering of gunfire cut him off, this sound much closer than before. Jackson pushed Lisa in the chest with his right hand, harder against the wall while his left whipped the .45 around to bear on the alley. Instead of the gang members that Lisa had expected to see through the space between the dumpster and the wall, several dark-suited men were approaching them warily. Jackson swore under his breath. "When I tell you to run," he murmured, just before the men saw them, "You run. Got it?"

She barely had time to nod; he simply expected her to obey his orders. Though a tiny voice within her brought up the complaint that he seemed very confident that she wouldn't fight with him, she knew he had the experience in this situation, and she was actually glad for his guidance.

Which, she would reflect later, was equally as disturbing as her earlier cover for him in front of the policeman.

Jackson was concentrating on the men who walked toward their hiding place. He held his arm steady, waiting for them to come into range. Imperceptibly, he leaned closer to Lisa, his hand still resting lightly against her breastbone, the two of them frozen and tightly coiled, ready to move.

When the first man appeared around the dumpster, Jackson was ready. He fired once, twice, and the man dropped, twin scarlet stains spreading across the fabric of his shirt. "Run," Jackson ordered, pushing her toward the open area. She hesitated, and he snapped over his shoulder again, "Lisa, _GO_!" as his arm adjusted and fired again at the next man to appear.

There was a flurry of gunshots; Lisa finally got her feet to respond and she sprinted from cover into the courtyard park. She heard shouts from several directions, people coming to help, someone shouting into a cell phone at a 911 dispatcher. A bullet sped by her, close enough for her to feel it disturb the air as it passed. She ducked around a stone bench that was bookended by cylindrical planters, also of granite, and caught her breath. Sliding down to sit on the ground, she regained her composure and then risked a glance back toward the alley, trying to see if she was being pursued or if Jackson was still there.

Her vantage point offered little information. She could see people running around, random passersby but no suits; a police car careened around the corner and pulled up, siren wailing. All attention was focused on the alley. Lisa allowed herself to take a great gasping sigh as she faced away from the alley once more.

"That was exciting." Jackson's rasp so close to her ear nearly made her jump a yard to the right. He crouched next to her, putting his gun away somewhere inside his coat.

"Oh, holy hell," she breathed, "I didn't hear you come up."

"Of course you didn't." He stood carefully and helped her up, looking around all the while. "We'd better go before someone sees us. I don't feel like answering police questions today, do you?"

Lisa didn't trust herself to do more than shake her head no. She let him take her arm—more gently this time than he had earlier—and guide her further down the block at a brisk walk. Other people were fleeing the scene as well, giving them cover from anyone who might have seen them in the alley. He kept checking around them to make sure they were alone, that they weren't being followed, and once they turned the corner onto the cross street, he hailed a cab. He gave his address, then let himself slump against the seat, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Hey," she asked, "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "I recognized one of the men in the alley." He sounded troubled. "Someone I used to work with."

She didn't know what to make of that. "Is he d—"

"Oh, yes." Jackson's face registered unease, worry. "Yes, very much so."

Once more, they fell silent. There was no lack of things to discuss, but very little they could say until they were alone.

.-.-.-.-.


	7. Someone Set Us Up the Bomb

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. This is for my entertainment, and I hope yours as well.**

_**AN: Don't normally do these, but I wanted to let you all know that I actually have a reason for just about everything that happens in this fic. If you're unsure about some plot twist or the way I set something up, I ask you to keep reading. Not everything is cut and dried; as it is in real life, there are many layers to every situation. Please stick with me, guys. ;) I promise that the ride will at least never be…dull. XD —CG**_

.-.-.-.-.

The air between them had changed a little; there was still the wariness, the mistrust on both sides, but the edge of worrying whether or not they would try to kill each other had dulled. In its wake, all that remained was a sense of exhaustion that both of them felt from locking horns constantly since ten-thirty that morning.

Jackson's building came into view again just as the sun had begun its descent into the west. Traces of orange and pink tinged the high cirrus clouds, not yet brilliant but definitely there. Lisa might have bemoaned the loss of most of a day except that she was feeling much luckier than she had when she'd woken up. She had made it through alive so far, and her sparring with Jackson—both physical and verbal—had stoked the furnace within her that burned away her fear, her anger, her grief. All that remained was fire-tempered steel, cold fury that lent her strength to face what would surely make her first experience with Jackson seem like a game.

Rejecting his help was now out of the question. Someone was trying to kill them—whether it was some mythical cleanup crew or someone else, Lisa didn't know and at the moment, she didn't care. All that mattered was that those men in the alley had not been gang members on a spree; they had all been dressed as sharply as Jackson himself, if not as fashionably, and that bothered her more than the mixed-up brand-name colorful getup of a gang thug.

That she needed him was a hard thought to acknowledge, but she understood that she had to cooperate with Jackson on some level in order to stay alive, to keep save her remaining family, Keefe and his wife, his children. It rankled, but she would just have to get past the blow to her pride.

The hardest part would be finding a new way to avoid killing Connolly. Lisa was a great believer in 'live and let live', and no matter what Connolly had done, he should be taken down by legal means. Perhaps she could convince Jackson to hear her out, but first she would have to work out how to make everyone happy.

People-pleaser, 24/7, indeed. Some things never changed.

And so it was that Lisa found herself following him into the very building she'd resisted entering that morning, into the elevator where he studiously looked straight ahead at the cream-colored doors as it took them to the thirtieth floor. They had said nothing more for the rest of the cab ride, nor as they walked into the building, boarded the elevator, hit the button to go up. Jackson seemed drained, somehow, oddly distracted, though with a new determination. It was as if they'd traded places, where he was the uncertain one and she the cold-blooded manager.

With a soft chime, the doors opened into a well-kept, if sparsely decorated, hallway. Jackson stepped off first and headed down the corridor without a word. Lisa followed, mildly exasperated. The hall branched twice; Jackson turned first left and then right, ending at a lone door at the end of the last turn. A brushed brass nameplate read, "RPNR Management, LLC".

Jackson entered a code on the electronic lock beside the door and went in. Lisa noticed that he was on alert, and that the .45 was back in his hand. When they were both inside, he immediately stalked through the suite, checking everything in an almost routine manner. He closed the last door and sighed, putting the gun away as he walked to the middle of the main room.

"Home sweet home," he said, spreading his arms. "Don't get too comfortable; we won't be staying here long."

"Why are we here in the first place?" Lisa looked around. The place seemed to be half apartment, half office. It was neat but worn, utilitarian, as if he had simply moved in after a business had moved out and hadn't changed a thing. Then again, perhaps that was just what had happened; the framed posters on the walls were the kind every generic office had—art exhibits from the 80s, motivational concepts, golf courses. Plain grey low-pile carpet still showed signs where cubicles and chairs had compressed it. Even the blinds over the windows were right out of the customary décor of the inoffensive, hyper-sanitized, middle-of-the-road company. She wondered for a moment what the former occupants had been.

A single desk and chair, both ordinary, had been placed by one window. On the desk, a laptop waited beside a small file and a stack of manila folders that had been stuffed with notes, forms, photos. That last drew Lisa's attention, as one image that stuck out seemed familiar.

She picked up the file, checking first to see if Jackson could see her snooping. He had gone into the door to the right, the room that appeared to be a bedroom, and she heard him moving around in there. She quickly tugged the photo out of its file to see it better, then nearly dropped it when she realized what it was.

"You didn't believe me?"

This time, she did drop it, startled. How could he be so quiet? "He must have known who you were. I don't understand." In the picture, her father looked alive, relaxed, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling the way they did when he was with friends. But he was sitting next to Jackson Rippner, the two of them leaning on the dark wood bar behind them and grinning for the camera. It might have been the poor lighting in the bar, but Jackson's smile appeared slightly forced. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth."

As well as he could read her, she could read him. He wasn't joking with her now, was taking this seriously and his answer had been serious as well. Lisa sat down heavily and looked away. "Why didn't he tell me?"

He laughed darkly. "Probably because you wouldn't have believed him, either. Or you'd have called the cops on me, or had his head examined." Jackson walked over to her and bent down to pick up the photo from where it had fallen on the ground. "How did you get this?"

Something in his voice told her not to dissemble. "I saw it on the desk in one of the folders."

"Don't lie to me, Leese," he snapped, and she stood up, offended.

"I'm not lying!" She pointed. "It was in that folder, right there."

"Hmm." He frowned, pushing aside the rest of the stack to get the one she had indicated. Once they were spread out on the desk, even Lisa could see that one was different, a different brand or style; its color was lighter and the cut of the tab was smaller. When he opened it, they saw a stapled packet headed with a minimalistic, swooping logo. Jackson flipped past it to reveal other photos of him, of Joe, of the Lux Atlantic from the street on the day of the attack, debris raining down—then Lisa gasped to see images of herself as well. Jackson seemed to remember she was seeing them, too, and he snapped the folder shut.

"What is that?" demanded Lisa, following him as he stuffed the folder and the others from the desk into a laptop bag, suddenly hasty. When he didn't answer, she got between him and the computer. "Jackson, so help me—"

"We need to get out of here. Now." He reached for the cord but she stopped him and he straightened, tense.

"Not until you tell me—"

He cut her off by physically, forcefully placing his hand over her mouth. "We. Need. To. Go." His voice was a harsh whisper underlaid with urgency. Lisa, wide-eyed, nodded, and the same hand pushed her to the side. He grabbed the computer, adding it to the bag with the folders. The cord followed, then he slung the strap over his shoulder and picked up a soft leather suitcase she hadn't noticed by his feet. "Now, let's get the hell out of here, quickly, calmly, in an orderly fashion, and we can discuss the invasion of your privacy or whatever, later."

Stunned, Lisa watched him stride to the door, then shook herself and went after him.

.-.-.-.-.

They only took the elevator down to the fifth floor, then Jackson burst into the hallway and headed for the stairs, Lisa at his heels. Though he still hadn't said anything to her since walking from the office, she could feel the tension radiating from him like heat. His pace quickened down the last few flights—and then he bypassed the ground floor's door entirely, continuing on to the basement. They went down one level, then two, and finally he hit the door at Parking Level Two.

Only when they were both in the underground garage did he actually break into a run. A few midrange luxury cars were in the lot, and they hurried toward a beautifully-polished black BMW.

"Get in," said Jackson, the first words he'd spoken since they had left the apartment. His voice was deep, ragged, the rasp more pronounced as Lisa had noticed it became when he was under duress. She did as he said, getting in the passenger side and buckling her belt while he threw the suitcase into the back. The laptop bag, he handed to her, then he did a brief but careful walk around the car, looking for something. He ended by opening the hood and checking the engine, then slammed it shut and finally slid into the driver's seat. A key appeared from some pocket, and he took a deep breath before putting into the ignition.

The motor purred to life, and Jackson released the breath he'd held. "Hold on," he instructed Lisa, not looking at her. She gripped the bag like a life preserver as he shifted into first. A quick glance at his watch made him grip the steering wheel harder, his knuckles whitening. Everything he did was focused on driving up and around the winding exit ramp to the ground floor and the street, which he did with the same smooth skill as he'd used with the .45. The way his jaw was clenched and his gaze was fixed ahead kept Lisa from asking what was happening, why they had to leave so quickly.

She had her answer the moment they reached the street. Something ricocheted off the window, then something else, as if gravel or rocks were hitting them. Lisa checked her mirror out of habit, only to see a man in a suit standing on the sidewalk they'd just passed. With a jolt, she realized that they were being shot at again. Her head snapped around to warn Jackson but the words died in her throat.

"I know," he said tersely, shifting. He glanced in the rearview and back at the road. "It's bulletproof. Get ready. It's going to get bumpy for a moment."

Lisa clung to the door handle and the laptop bag when a heavy _THUMP! THUMP!_ sounded behind them. She felt it as much as she heard it. The car shuddered—no, it was the _ground_—and she braved a look back.

Where she figured the office had been, most of the way up the building, the remains of an explosive fireball were disintegrating into black smoke. A similar plume of smoke had erupted from the exit of the parking garage at the base of the tower. The force of the explosion had been strong enough to knock the suited man to the ground. Lisa didn't know if he got up or not; they turned a corner before she could tell.

By the time they heard the first sirens, they were two blocks away and getting further every second.

By the time the incident was reported on the radio, they were across town.

.-.-.-.-.

Jackson turned onto a main road, thick with the remains of rush-hour traffic. They blended seamlessly with the other cars until they were just another black BMW heading back to the suburbs after a hard day of work in the city. Lisa realized they were passing the street down which the Lux Atlantic was located, and she turned to him.

"Where are we going? My hotel is that way."

"I know," he replied. "We're not going there unless you want another problem like my office had."

"The explosions? But…didn't you—" She had thought he'd set the bombs.

He shook his head. "That was not my work. I like to think I'm a little more subtle than that, Leese."

"Then how did you know?" It was hard to keep the edge of hysteria from her voice. All this time she'd thought he was in control of the situation, but for him to reveal that he hadn't been…her hands shook, and she twisted them into the strap of the bag.

"The file. The one with the photo of your dad." He glanced over at her and then back at the road. "I kept all those pictures in a locked drawer. They were personal things. That's why I thought you were lying about where you got it. I never saw that file before today. It was probably a message for me."

"Oh my God." Lisa clenched the bag harder. "But why give you a file and then blow you up?"

He shook his head. "I won't know until I read it later. All I know is that the upstairs bomb was probably in that drawer, and someone didn't want me dead, while someone else did." His fingers fanned on the wheel. "I'm taking you to your dad's."

"Wait, what? I thought you said it wasn't safe."

"It's saf_er_."

Lisa's headache had come back full force and she simply lacked the energy to fight with him. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of her window and just let him drive. The sky above had finally turned with the setting sun: brilliant pink and gold to the west behind them, deep blue and violet in the east.

East, the direction in which they sped toward her father's empty house.


	8. Old Familiar Things

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. Still waiting for Wes Craven to return my calls. XD**

.-.-.-.-.

Lisa didn't know she'd fallen asleep until she felt a firm hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake. It took her a moment to recall her surroundings; she was still in the BMW, arms wrapped around the laptop bag. She recognized the dim shape of her father's garage through the front windshield and hastily unbuckled her seatbelt. Through the driver's side back door, Jackson was retrieving his suitcase and a paper bag. He caught her eye and jerked his chin toward the back seat.

"Get the other bag. I'm going to let us in."

She frowned. She must have been tired if she hadn't woken up even when Jackson had stopped to get groceries. "I have a key, you know. You don't have to break in," she said as she shut the door with her hip. The neighborhood was quiet, most lights out or reduced to the blue glow of TV sets in the front rooms.

"I'm not," he replied, brandishing a key of his own. He smiled wanly at her consternation and pushed the door open. As she passed him, he murmured, "Stay in the kitchen until I come back. I'm going to check out the house before we get settled."

After the events of the day, she found herself disinclined to argue, so she merely nodded and let him follow her to the kitchen.

"Just wait here," he instructed, "and I'll be right back. Be ready to run if I tell you to, got it?"

"Yeah." She hugged her arms to herself and leaned against the counter as Jackson disappeared into the living room.

Lisa closed her eyes in the darkened room and listened to the house. She hadn't been inside it for at least a year, but she had lived so much of her life within these walls that it still felt like a part of her. She could feel the changes that had been made over time, but even the missing walls and the old wallpaper still resonated in her memory. There had been a table where the island now stood, sometime around her junior high school days. She recalled sitting there and doing her homework while her parents made dinner or bickered in the background. They'd had a dog then, too—a shaggy, caramel-colored mutt who always had muddy paws and liked to sleep under the coffee table.

She inhaled deeply, searching for something familiar, something she could latch onto that would help her reconcile the ache in her heart, the grief that just would not go away no matter how hard she tried to push it down. The picture of Joe had reminded her of what he'd looked like as a vibrant, vital man, just when she'd accepted that he was gone. He had been a man who had done nothing to anyone, nothing to deserve his fate.

Something in the room changed, like the air pressure adjusted to accommodate something new. It was different enough to make her open her eyes. In the gloom, she could see that Jackson had returned, silent as always. He was watching her, she could tell, though it was impossible to make out his expression from his silhouette alone. In a very small voice that she hated the moment it sprang from her lips, she asked, "What?"

He said nothing for a moment, then shook his head and went to flip the light switch. "Nothing." The lights came up slowly, half-dimmed. "You were spacing out."

"I was alert. I knew when you got back."

"Right." She glanced at him, certain she'd heard a bit of humor in his tone. He had replaced the .45 and now he began unloading one of the bags onto the counter. "We should clean out the fridge. I got food for breakfast and lunch. I don't plan on being here long, but I don't think we need to smell rotten vegetables when we eat."

Lisa swallowed. She wasn't ready to touch anything just yet, even if it was a head of lettuce past its prime. Suddenly she understood how Joe had felt, unwilling to change his daughter's room, unwilling to risk accidentally throwing away something precious. She stood before the open refrigerator, staring at the contents.

"Leese?" Jackson's sharp question startled her out of her daze. "Wake up."

She didn't look at him, but grabbed the trash can from under the sink. With systematic detachment, she began to remove the bags of lunchmeat and salad ingredients that her father had bought nearly a month ago and never got the chance to use. She stifled a sob that took her by surprise, bringing a hand to cover her mouth.

Jackson's hand wrapped around her wrist, keeping her from completing the movement. Now she did look at him, angry and ready to ask him what the hell he was doing, but he spoke before she could.

"Do you think you can manage one little task without breaking down, Leese?" he asked scornfully. "Just one little thing?"

"You asshole." She tore her wrist away from him, almost surprised when she succeeded. "I'm sure that in your professional-killer world, you don't know what it's like to care about someone enough to miss them when they're gone, but I'm having a little bit of a hard time here. So cut me some slack, okay?" Lisa angrily took the gallon of milk he held out to her and slammed it down on a wire shelf in the refrigerator. He quickly passed her a box of butter, a carton of eggs, and a package of bacon, all of which joined the milk before she hurled the door closed. "Happy?"

He studied her through heavy-lidded eyes, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're so easy, Leese. It's almost criminal."

A distraction, that's all it had been. He'd stopped her from breaking down by getting her angry at him. She didn't know whether she should thank him or hit him. Either way, she was irritated. "You know what, Jackson? You're right. This is what happens when people have emotions beyond anger. I know that's hard for you to grasp, but sometimes it makes us weak."

"You don't have—"

"The luxury of being weak," she finished for him in a bored tone. "I know, I know. Just forget it. I'm going to bed." She turned to the stairs, and Jackson made as if to follow her. "Oh, hell no."

"What?" Jackson raised a brow. "There are three bedrooms upstairs."

"Not on your life, Rippner." Lisa crossed her arms. "You want to stay here? The couch is that way."

He sighed, allowing a smile. "Fine. Don't I at least get a blanket? A pillow?"

"Sure. You stay there." She turned to go.

"Wait," he said, half-leaping past the other side of the island to where she stood on the bottom stair. When he caught her wrist this time, it was more to get her attention than to stop her. "Lisa, I—"

Nothing came after that. Lisa waited, confused by his use of her name instead of the usual mocking 'Leese'. Everything they'd said up until now had had some purpose, some reason. They didn't engage in idle chatter like ordinary people, and now that they had a moment of peace without having to simply share information, they both seemed to be at a loss for what to say.

All at once, he tugged on her wrist, bringing her off-balance enough to make her stumble toward him. She tensed, expecting to have to fend off an attack—an attack that never came. Instead, she found herself pulled closer against him, found his lips making contact with hers.

The moment they touched, Lisa felt a shock wave that traveled down every nerve in her body to her fingertips and toes. Involuntarily, she gasped at the sensation, and Jackson took the gesture as an appeal for him to go on. He adjusted his hold on her, threaded fingers through her hair, tilted her face to a better angle for him to deepen the kiss before she could protest.

Lisa meant to stop him, she really did, but the moment his tongue swept over hers, she lost all thought. Suddenly, he was the one being pushed back, the one whose mouth she claimed. A ragged groan escaped him, then he was vying for dominance again. They surged against each other, clutching at shirts, hair, shoulders, cupping faces and winding arms around necks and waists. Jackson was relentless and Lisa was unyielding, two forces of nature that resisted each other even while they needed each other to survive.

It wasn't until he pulled back for the barest breath that she was able to regain some semblance of order to her thoughts. She was against the wall, his hand cradling the back of her head as he returned to kiss her again. Through half-open eyes, she managed to catch a glimpse of what he looked like without any artifice, any mask, any barrier. That humanity, that emotion that he kept so tightly controlled was now the only thing she saw, and for the first time since meeting him all that time ago, she thought he was truly handsome.

Something about the way his teeth grazed her bottom lip made her go weak, threatened to overwhelm her again. He was warm, so close, so real. It would be so easy to just give in to him, let him urge the jacket from her shoulders, sink to the ground with him…

It would have been too easy. Another time, another place, she might have had this with him, but he and his former employer and the ones who hunted them now had made it impossible. His eyes were already closed, so he missed her perusal. He was as lost in the moment as she had been; the idea was unsettling. It also made it much harder for her do to what she did next.

"Jackson—Jackson, no," She forced herself to say. She had to tear her mouth from his, had to physically put her hand over his mouth and face and had to push him away. "No. Just—no."

They were both disoriented, breathing hard. Jackson shook his head to clear it. He took a step toward her, but she stepped back and up one stair.

"No," she repeated, her trembling hand still outstretched to keep him at arm's length, "Just no. No." They stared at each other. Lisa tried to ignore the traces of disappointment and betrayal on his face that he must not have remembered to hide.

His voice was a labored whisper. "Lisa—"

"_No_." She blindly fumbled for the bannister behind her. She didn't trust herself to say more as she climbed the stairs and went to the linen closet. Her body felt brittle, as if she would break if she wasn't careful. Woodenly, she went back down to see he hadn't moved. The only difference was that the mask was back, his icy eyes catching the low light like a cat's. She handed him the blanket and pillow she'd promised.

Long seconds ticked by as they stood there. Something had changed between them with that one moment of weakness, something that Lisa wasn't sure would help or hinder them from this point onward. The tension, instead of dissipating, had grown thicker, made worse for both of them by the knowledge that on some level, the attraction between them was mutual. It also meant that they had to tread with more care, lest they both lose sight of what they needed to do. They were true opposites, oppos_ing_ powers that maintained a delicate balance in order to co-exist.

All this passed between them without a word. At last, Jackson reached up and took the bedding from her, deliberately not touching her, and Lisa turned away once more.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she looked back. He was still standing there, watching her until she slowly rounded the corner to go to her room.

.-.-.-.-.

Sleep would likely not come so easily this time as it had in the car. Lisa changed into the pajamas she always kept at the house for her visits: flannel pants, a pair of tank tops that she'd layered after some fad in college and never really stopped doing. She saw herself in the mirror as she washed up before bed; there was no mistaking that she'd been very thoroughly kissed. She angrily wiped a soapy hand across the reflection of her unusually bright eyes, unusually swollen lips before splashing water on her face and briskly drying it with a towel by the sink.

She had automatically chosen her own room to stay in, whether out of habit or for the sense of familiarity her bed gave her, she wasn't sure. She knew every dip in the mattress, knew that the blue sheets were worn near her feet and that there was a hole where her quilt had come unsewn. The window shade was still broken; it wouldn't close, so she had just gotten used to leaving it open. Moonlight filtered through the thin fabric of the curtains as it had for years and years, better than any night light.

Her old alarm clock still sat on the nightstand. It changed from 12:48 to 12:49 as she watched. Everything in the house was so normal, so ordinary. If she lay very still, she could almost imagine that she heard the steady breathing of her sleeping father down the hall.

She bit her lip, huddled under the blankets. She had to stop thinking like that. If what she had been through today was any indication, Lisa would need her wits about her. She didn't have the luxury of grieving like a normal person, not when she was being hunted by people who wanted her dead. Certainly not when her only companion was someone she considered her greatest adversary, someone who had managed to throw her life into disarray more than once.

There were just too many questions to process properly. What had Joe been doing, befriending Jackson? How was she supposed to rationalize killing someone, or at least helping someone else do the job? Why did this have to happen now, when she'd finally gotten her life back under control? What did Jackson think he would accomplish by kissing her like that? Was it something he wanted to do, or was it just another method of persuasion, another game?

Worse, why hadn't she fought him? She couldn't think anymore and buried her face in one of the pillows.

For the first time in a long time, Lisa Reisert cried herself to sleep.

.-.-.-.-.


	9. Comfort Me With Eggs

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye.**

.-.-.-.-.

_Three twenty-three. Three twenty-four. Three twenty-five._

Lisa had woken, none-too-gently reminded of the flaws of sleeping in a room that hadn't changed. There was one spring in the mattress that had been put in at an odd angle, and it always seemed to dig right into her hip no matter how she turned. The moon shone right into her window, bright as a street light. It also seemed that her father had never fixed the faucet in the bathroom, and the steady drip, drip, drip of water alone was maddening enough to keep her awake.

_Three twenty-six. Three twenty-seven._

She tried to turn away from the clock, but the spring jabbed her worse on that side. Under normal circumstances, she might have gotten up to get some comfort food, but no amount of exhaustion could make her forget that she had company sleeping downstairs.

_Three twenty-eight. Three twenty-nine._

"Screw it," she said, kicking the blanket off her legs. It was her house, wasn't it? And she had already vowed not to let Jackson's presence rule her decisions. She found a pair of slippers from her closet and pulled on a thin cotton robe, determined to allow herself something normal in the highly abnormal mess her life had become.

When she reached the stairs, rubbing her eyes, she could see the light still on in the living room. Cautiously, silently, she made her way down, hoping not to disturb Jackson. She had no desire to speak to him, not until she'd worked out what game he was playing.

A brief scan of the open room revealed him sprawled on the too-short couch, pillow under his head and the blanket half-falling off his legs. He was still in the clothes he'd worn all day, suit pants and green shirt looking uncharacteristically rumpled. The jacket had been draped over the back of the couch, presumably within reach of his hand should he wake and need the hidden gun. On his chest, the file of photos lay open and forgotten in sleep; the glasses she recognized from the funeral were loosely grasped in his hand, resting almost protectively on the file. He must have drifted off while reading it. The lamp was on its lowest setting, but had never been switched off.

Lisa breathed a soft sigh. With luck, he'd stay that way until she was done. She went to the kitchen and opened a lower cabinet as quietly as she could. The pan she wanted was thankfully right on top. Though she hated to admit it, she was glad Jackson had thought about food for the next day, and even more glad that he had bought a dozen eggs. She found butter in the fridge, grabbed the eggs and the milk, and lit the burner.

She checked an upper cabinet to see if the mugs were still up there; they were, so she chose a large one she remembered buying in high school and put it on the counter. Next she located a fork, a spatula, some salt and pepper. Deftly, she cracked two eggs together with one hand, let the yolks and the clear whites drain into the mug, tossed the shells into the sink. She added milk, stirred the mixture with the fork, and set it aside.

The flame steadied on the burner, so she dropped a pat of butter into the pan and set it on the heat. As she watched it melt, gently tilting the pan to coat the whole bottom, she felt an almost meditative calm slip over her. How many times had she done this, over how many years? Not every night, of course, but whenever she was stressed, angry, upset, afraid, depressed—this was her ritual, her quiet way of coping with sleepless nights and bad dreams.

It had been Joe's fault, really, and though she looked more like her mother, her father had been the one Lisa most took after in personality. He had started giving her eggs when she had come down as a little girl, sniffling after some nightmare to find her insomniac parent enjoying a late night (or early morning, depending on how one looked at it) snack. He would set her up at the table, a finger to his lips as if to say, 'don't tell mom' as he went through the same preparations she now did. They would eat in silence, sharing a conspiratorial grin, then Lisa would be sent up to bed while Joe cleaned up to hide their tracks.

She smiled a little to herself. It hadn't been until much later that she figured out that of course her mother must have known; where else would the eggs be disappearing to so quickly? At the time, though, it had been a wonderful secret, something only she and her father knew, and it had followed her through high school, college, her first apartment on her own…through the recovery from the horror of her rape, and then after meeting Jackson, to Annapolis, and to…now.

Swallowing, she fluffed the eggs in the mug and prepared to dump them into the pan when a quiet voice spoke behind her. "Scrambled eggs at this hour, Leese?"

Her hand froze, gripped the mug in place, eggs unpoured. First, she counted to ten, then ten again, then she slowly turned.

Jackson leaned a hip against the island, yawning. He still held the glasses in one hand, propping the other up to rub his face. "I wondered if I'd see this bit of predictability tonight, or if you'd avoid it just to spite me."

It took another count before she could answer him. "Shut up, Jackson," she growled with more vehemence than either of them expected, "Just shut the hell up."

Surprisingly, he backed off instead of coming back with some witty retort. They went through another of their now-common silences, then Lisa turned back to the stove and finished dumping the eggs into the pan. She pushed them around a little, ignoring the man across the room as she worked.

He cleared his throat. "So, ah…how many are you making?"

Lisa stopped stirring. Without looking at him, she said, "Jackson."

"Yes?"

"Do you want eggs, too?"

"Yes…?"

Another count to ten, then she reached into the carton and pulled out three more. "Then ask outright next time," she muttered, cracking them into the mug.

Jackson said nothing else while she worked, which was as much a blessing as it was a distraction. She could feel him watching her, studying the movements she made as she prepared enough eggs for both of them. She knew she should feel more upset that her ritual was being observed by an outsider, but there was a strange sense of comfort in knowing there was someone else there.

Even if it was someone who continually pissed her off.

She split the eggs onto two plates and set them on the island, one in front of Jackson and one on her side. Forks followed, and the salt and pepper shakers. He picked up his fork and dug right in, but Lisa hesitated. Somehow, sharing this with him was in many ways more intimate than kissing him had been. She felt the sudden need to stamp it as her own, to keep it something she had shared with her father and not with her former tormentor.

The fork had hovered by her mouth for nearly a minute when she remembered one thing, something that even Jackson, who thought he knew everything about her, wouldn't see coming.

"Something wrong?" he asked between bites. He frowned as she began rifling through the refrigerator. "What are you looking for?"

"This," she said, withdrawing with her prize. "Eggs just aren't complete without it."

"You have got to be kidding me." Jackson put his fork down. "Real funny, Leese."

She smirked and unscrewed the lid, scooping out a forkful and letting the purple mass drop into the middle of her plate. With a satisfied little sound, she mixed it in, then tasted it.

_Perfect_.

Jackson looked a little green—matching, incidentally, the color her eggs had become. "You didn't just put grape jelly on scrambled eggs."

"And here I was under the impression that you'd studied my every preference," she taunted. "Guess I'm not so predictable as you'd like to think."

He watched her in disbelief as she finished the rest, obviously in bliss. "Guess not."

Something in his tone made her look up sharply. She finished the last forkful, all traces of humor gone, then picked up the plates and put them in the sink. Instead of saying more, she busied herself with cleaning up the mess she'd made while she gathered her thoughts.

As she put the food away, she saw him out of the corner of her eye, putting the dishes in the sink and wiping down the counter. She wouldn't have much time to avoid talking to him, and he seemed to want to say something.

She was right. "I've been going through the file," he began, but she interrupted him again.

"Why did you do it?" The question was hard enough to ask; she watched the door of the fridge, her hands, anything but him.

Silence, then, "Do what?"

She rounded on him then. "I'll say it if you want to be coy," she hissed. "Why did you kiss me, Jackson? Why the hell did you do that? What purpose did it serve?"

His expression had sobered, hardened. "Did it have to have a purpose?" He snorted. "This isn't a fairy tale, Leese. I don't know what you thought I meant, but you might want to forget your little fantasy about it being anything more than a distraction. I told you you were easy."

Her hand flew toward his face for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, only this time he was ready. He caught it easily, twisted it behind her back, leaned in close. Lisa couldn't get free without hurting herself, though she pulled her face away from his as much as possible. "Let go of me," she said tightly, furious, humiliated.

"What did you think it meant?" he asked, breath fanning over her ear. He tightened his hold on her, stopping her struggles. "What did you imagine about me, Leese?"

"I thought," Lisa replied through clenched teeth, "That you were human. Just for a moment." She saw the barb hit home in the way the muscle of his jaw flexed. She drove it deeper by mirroring her earlier words. "Guess I was wrong."

He stilled, then she found herself released all at once. She staggered back, putting distance between them as they caught their breaths. Then he snatched his glasses up from the island countertop. "Guess so."

The tension was back, and with it, her headache. Lisa closed her eyes, defeated. "It's four o'clock in the morning. I'm going back to bed. We can discuss our 'plans' tomorrow, when we can be civil."

"Sure." He was already on his way back to the living room without a backward glance.

Lisa sighed deeply and went back up to her room.

.-.-.-.-.

_She knew it was a dream, was completely aware of its complete surreality and the sheer improbability of it ever actually happening. It still didn't change the fact that she was dreaming about a lean form that hovered over hers, about full lips that captured hers, about a voice that crooned her name in a broken tone. She knew there was no way the warm arms that wound around her were real, and certainly the legs that twined with hers never actually would. It would take more trust—and naturally more emotion than Lisa believed they had time to fathom in the rest of their lives—before she would consider making Jackson the first man she'd slept with in the five years since before she'd received the scar on her chest._

_She knew it was a dream, but then, there was nothing wrong with dreaming. She let her mind unfold the images one by one. All at once, the dream changed; he was arching his body against hers, crying out her name, over and over and over…_

"Leese! Hey, Leese!"

Her eyes snapped open to see the ceiling of her old room. Sunlight flooded through the open shade, and she moaned, throwing an arm over her eyes as she turned over.

"Lisa!"

The _hell_. "What?" she whined loud enough for him to hear, actually whined and didn't care. His voice was coming from downstairs; if he wanted to wake her up, there had to be better ways. "Let me sleep."

"Lisa," his tone changed, sounded a little edgier than normal, even muffled by the door, "I really think you should come down here now."

Collecting the tattered remains of her pleasant dream-version of her houseguest was out of the question now. She flung the covers back and grabbed the robe before stalking to the bedroom door and down the stairs. "You'd better have a damn good reason, Jackso—oh—"

Rounding the corner, she found herself confronted by the sight of Jackson in the hall, surrounded by five men in black suits; his hands were clasped on the top of his head, and all five had weapons trained on him. They all looked up at her, waiting.

"I'm sorry, Leese," Jackson said softly, sincerely.

Something moved in her peripheral vision. Lisa spun to face her attacker, but the other had the benefit of suprise. Pain exploded at the back of her head, made stars float momentarily before her eyes, and then she was falling, suddenly too heavy to stand against the pull of gravity that pulled her down, down, down.

The last thing she heard was Jackson shouting her name from a thousand miles away, over and over and over.


	10. White

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I do, however, own Mr. White and Mr. Vondar...not that anyone is about to steal them for their own twisted ends, but hey.  
**

_**AN: You guys get a long chapter today; I couldn't break it up any other way. Lucky you:P **_

.-.-.-.-.

The tang of metal and salt water was the first thing Lisa became aware of when she woke again. The second thing was that her wrists were handcuffed to an exquisite wood and metal headboard; the third was that she was not alone.

A very tall, very angular man stood at the door of the luxuriously-appointed room, watching her with polite interest. He inclined his head to her as though there should be nothing odd or frightening about her being chained to a bed in an unfamiliar place. "Miss Reisert," he said, "I'm glad. Mr. White asked me to check on you; he will be pleased to know you are conscious."

Terrified, Lisa shrank back from him when he approached her. "Stay—stay away from me," she warned, her voice so dry that all that came out was a harsh croak. It sounded more like Jackson's than hers. She swallowed and tried again. "I mean it."

The man seemed amused. "Very well, but I won't be able to unlock your restraints if I can't get closer."

"Why am I here? Where am I?" Lisa adjusted herself so she could lash out with her feet if need be. She was mortified to see that she was still dressed in her pajamas and robe. "Where's Jackson?"

Amusement hardened into grim seriousness. "Mr. Rippner is being held in a separate room. He was…less than cooperative after you were neutralized. I apologize for the rough treatment of our messengers. They misinterpreted Mr. White's invitation, I'm afraid."

There was that name again. She held herself very still while the man carefully unlocked the handcuffs. Immediately, she snatched her hands back to her chest, rubbing where the metal had chafed her. The man made no other move toward her, instead setting a white, unmarked department store box she hadn't even seen him holding onto the other end of the bed. "Who—" Her voice was still shaky, so she tried again. "Who is Mr. White?"

For an answer, she received another polite smile, though his eyebrows rose a bit. "Mr. Rippner said he received our message; he didn't tell you?"

Lisa frowned. "He doesn't tell me much of anything."

At that, the man chuckled. "That does sound like our Mr. Rippner. I apologize, then, Miss Reisert. I am certain Mr. White will explain everything. He has provided suitable clothing for you to change into, if you would." He indicated the box. "I am Mr. Vondar; please, do not hesitate to call if you need assistance. Mr. White expects you at dinner in an hour. Through that door is a rest room—I took the liberty of providing some aspirin and a cup as well, as I'm sure your head is not feeling its best right now. There are also guards stationed outside your door. I would not recommend attempting to, ah, wander about unescorted."

Which meant that she was a prisoner. Lisa nodded, and Mr. Vondar's smile grew wider. "Excellent," he went on, bowing at the door, "I will be back later. It is a true pleasure to meet you."

With that, he was gone. Lisa caught a glimpse of the hall beyond her room, and true to his word, there were two black-suited men standing on either side of her door. They reminded her more of Secret Service agents than anything, though they gave off a dangerous impression that the Secret Service just didn't have. She shivered.

She opened the box to see what clothes had been 'provided' for her. What she found inside made her feel torn between laughing and crying. In the end, she simply rolled her eyes. "I don't believe this," she muttered, holding the crisp white creation up by one shoulder. The designer label sewn discreetly into the seam didn't make her feel any less like someone in a James Bond movie.

Perhaps the first thing, she decided, should be to take the aspirin. It looked like she'd need them most.

.-.-.-.-.

An hour found her showered, her hair fixed properly, the pounding ache dulled by the painkillers. When she had stepped into the bathroom, she had frozen at the thought of being covertly watched. Then the more powerful desire to be clean took over, and she finally realized she didn't care. The warm water had been soothing on her iron-knotted muscles, and the very act of getting dressed in real clothes had calmed her down a little.

If one could call what she'd been given 'real' clothing. She recognized the designer's name immediately, though even on her salary she never dreamed of affording something like this. It was also not as bad as she'd originally thought, though she hated the way the neckline scooped dangerously low. It was just low enough to reveal her scar, and she had the feeling it had been deliberately chosen for just that feature. Otherwise, it was a simple sleeveless sheath, all in white linen with a few discreet organza details. Underneath it in the box, she'd found white open-toed sandals. Aside from the fashion rule that one wasn't supposed to wear white after Labor Day, it was precisely like something a movie star or wealthy businessman's wife would wear to a formal dinner on a luxury yacht.

Which, given the fact that she saw only ocean outside her window, was probably a close guess. She watched the sky change over the ocean while she waited, thinking. If she was a prisoner here, she had no way of escaping. With nowhere to turn, she had to play it safe and at least go quietly to talk to the mysterious Mr. White. Something told her that she wouldn't like what he had to say, but at this point, what choice did she have?

A knock on her door announced the return of Mr. Vondar. His brows rose appreciatively at the sight of her in the dress, though his perusal was professional rather than lascivious. "The dress suits you, Miss Reisert," he said with another of his small smiles. "Come, Mr. White is quite eager to meet you."

Lisa took the opportunity to study her surroundings as they filed through the narrow, carpeted hallway. They might be on a boat, but someone seemed to have thought of every comfort imaginable: oriental carpets on the floor, rich woods and gleaming polished metal. This Mr. White certainly loved his details.

"Here we go," said Mr. Vondar, indicating a door that blocked the rest of the hall. Voices came through, muffled, one placating and sure, the other angry and restrained. It struck her that the angry one was Jackson's. She didn't have long to contemplate beyond that, however, for Mr. Vondar opened the door. "Mr. White, Mr. Rippner," he said by way of greeting them, "Allow me to present Miss Reisert." He gestured that she should step into the room, then discreetly closed the door behind them.

"Holy shit," Jackson muttered, outburst forgotten. His whole body seemed to relax, the angry posture changing to one of nonchalance as though he hadn't been completely startled by her appearance. Predictably, his gaze traveled over her, head to toe and then back up to linger at her neckline. Lisa had to will her hands to keep from flying up to cover the scar. A few breaths went by, then she purposefully turned her attention from Jackson to the other person in the room, finding him equally as fascinated.

He wasn't imposing or frightening; quite the contrary, this Mr. White had an avuncular air about him that might have been comforting if she hadn't been knocked out and handcuffed at his behest. He was fit, though not young, well-cared-for and manicured. His hair was sandy-brown, his eyes also a warm, ordinary brown, edged with lines that crinkled as he smiled. Had she met him through her job, she would have pegged him for an important and successful businessman, perhaps someone who gave yearly contributions to charities and played golf on a private course.

Which was probably exactly how he wanted to appear. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, stepped further into the room. She would not cower at the wall. "So hi. Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Jackson made a strangled noise, shaken from his daze. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to warn her against being reckless, but the other man chuckled.

"Miss Reisert," he said, moving forward with his hand outstretched. "It is a pleasure." When she went to shake the proffered hand, he smoothly changed his grip to bring her fingers to his lips.

Past him, Jackson's face was a study in a struggle for self-control. Lisa might have laughed if she hadn't been so very creeped out by the situation. Instead, she bore the chivalrous gesture with cold stoicism.

This did not go unobserved. "Of course." The man straightened, releasing her hand. "Mr. Vondar informs me that you know less than we'd hoped, so perhaps I should start at the beginning. I am Mr. White; I woud appreciate it if you called me that, as I do not care to share any further names with you." He smiled. "Why don't we talk over dinner?"

Lisa noted with surprise that all three of them were wearing white, even Jackson, who still showed signs of an internal struggle. Was he warning her? Trying not to laugh? Trying not to stare? Or was he simply appalled that he had to break a fashion law for this mysterious man who now offered them a meal? Her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the eggs—how long ago? It was growing dark now, so it had been at least a day. "I'd like that," she replied, proud of how steady her voice came out. Mr. White held out his arm like a gentleman and she took it, aware of Jackson's stare burning holes over Mr. White's shoulder.

It appeared that Mr. White was aware, too. "Come now, Mr. Rippner," he said pleasantly, though his tone changed somewhat, "Some food will do you good as well. Get some meat on those skinny bones of yours." He leaned toward Lisa and, in a stage whisper, he said, "The boy never gains weight. It's a crime, I tell you. I have to watch everything I eat, but with him, poof. Nothing."

What should she make of this man? He wasn't in any hurry to do anything but have a dinner party. She decided to play along; it was all she could do. She pasted on a smile of her own and allowed herself to be led across the room to an elegantly-set table. Mr. White helped her into her seat as Jackson sat warily across from her. Mr. White took the end of the table and motioned to the food. "Please. Eat."

Despite the rumbling of her stomach, Lisa suddenly didn't feel hungry. She felt cold, drained, no little bit afraid, lightheaded, even. Instead of obeying, she put her hands in her lap and turned to Mr. White. "Actually," she began, willing her courage to stay with her, "I'd like a few answers first."

Jackson froze, eyes widening slightly as he tried to tell her something without words. For the second time, she felt like he was trying to warn her of something.

The other man, however, merely chuckled. "You know, Miss Reisert," he said amiably, not looking at her and instead studying the meat on his plate, "You never know when you're going to eat again." He cut a morsel and lifted it, twirling the fork slowly, his eyes still on the food. "The future is uncertain, wouldn't you agree?"

His words, coupled with Jackson's expression, chilled her further; the underlying meaning was not lost on her. Rather than argue more, she quietly picked up her knife and fork and began to eat superb food that she could barely taste.

.-.-.-.-.

Dinner went too slowly for Lisa. She listened to Mr. White hold forth on any number of topics, from the calm sea and how it made for such fine sailing to why he chose cherry instead of mahogany for the paneling around the walls of the room. Jackson said nothing beyond a few mumbled agreements when Mr. White addressed him directly. Once or twice during the meal, Lisa caught his gaze drifting toward her scar before he noticed that she saw him. Each time, his eyes would snap up to hers, then to Mr. White, who didn't appear to detect any of this.

At last the ordeal was over, and Mr. White invited them to the other side of the room where a bar curved protectively around the finest selection of alcohol Lisa had ever seen. He went behind the bar and gazed thoughtfully at the wall. It struck Lisa, suddenly, unpleasantly, that she knew precisely what he would choose.

She was right. The food became a hard knot in her stomach when Mr. White turned to her and asked, "_Domaine Charbay_ or Grey Goose, Miss Reisert?"

Lisa had to clear her throat before speaking. "Neither, if you don't mind."

He raised a brow. He held a bottle in each hand, weighing them. "I was sure Mr. Rippner told me you preferred vodka." He sent a questioning glance to Jackson, who looked away angrily. Mr. White's expression changed to one of realization, though he still smiled. "Ahh, I see. My mistake."

"You know," Lisa said tightly, "I'm really not up for drinking anything." She had to make her hands unclench. "I'd really just like to know what the hell is going on."

Mr. White sighed, though she got the sense that he didn't mean it, that he expected this. "Very well, Miss Reisert," he said as he put the bottles back on the shelf and poured himself a finger of Scotch. When he looked up at her again, his face was eerily reminiscent of Jackson's mask. "I suppose I've held you up long enough."

She nodded. "I think you have." Jackson made that noise again, as though he was choking on something, but she ignored him and put her hands on the bar. She kept her eyes on Mr. White's, constantly reminding herself that she could show no fear. "So tell me. Are you going to kill us?"

"Kill you?" Mr. White gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, my dear Miss Reisert, why ever would I want to kill you?"

"I don't know," she said, defensive, "Maybe the fact that I was knocked out and kidnapped?"

"Don't be stupid, Leese," Jackson said at once. "That very fact should indicate that he wanted us alive."

She stared at him, but Mr. White nodded. "Mr. Rippner is correct; if I wanted you dead, rest assured, you would be dead now."

Never mind the certainty she felt that he was being quite truthful. "Then why all the men chasing us?" she demanded. "Why the bombs? The people shooting at us?"

He made a noncommittal sound. "That was not my doing. I like to think my methods are more subtle than that."

Perhaps if she wasn't so tightly-strung at the moment, Lisa might have laughed at the turn of phrase she'd already heard from Jackson. "Then why—"

"Miss Reisert," said Mr. White, smoothly interrupting her, "I wonder if perhaps you could help me convince Mr. Rippner that he is being foolish."

A flicker of a glance at Jackson showed the muscle in his jaw twitching again. She waited until he looked back at her before returning her attention to Mr. White. "How so?" she asked, deliberately letting her tone convey that she felt he was being foolish in more ways than one. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson spin away in anger. Mr. White, however, laughed.

"You didn't tell me how much I would like her, Mr. Rippner," he scolded lightly. "Although now I see why she was able to defy you so well. I wonder how well you both would work as a team. You would be unstoppable—you with your intelligence, Miss Reisert with her common sense."

Jackson snapped over his shoulder. "I was the best manager you had, Whi—_Mister_ White," he growled. "One bad job—"

"One moment of weakness," Mr. White said, putting his glass down on the marble bartop with a firm clink, "was all you needed to suffer. I can't hire you back after that. Not even knowing that the weakness was for such a good reason as Miss Reisert."

Lisa didn't know whether she should be insulted or not. The feeling was overshadowed by the understanding that Mr. White was Jackson's former employer, the very person who Jackson had been trying to impress with his plan to kill Connolly. Things made more sense now; the fact that they were still alive, the sense of familiarity between the two men, the way Mr. White knew things like her dress size and what she preferred to drink. "As flattering as it is to be known as the reason Jackson failed in his mission," she announced, letting the irony show through her tone, "I would really just like to know what. The hell. Is going. On."

Mr. White looked expectantly at Jackson, who threw his hands into the air.

"Fine," he growled. "Mr. White doesn't want me to go after Don Connolly."

"Okay, great. That means we agree." Lisa crossed her arms and Mr. White laughed.

"It doesn't—dammit, Leese." Jackson thrust his fingers through his hair. Lisa had noticed that he did that when he found her particularly immovable.

She scowled. "Let's think about this. You want to kill him because it will get the cleanup crew off our backs, Mr. White will hire you back, and you can go back to your life of killing people and making people arrange to have other people killed. Right?"

"It's not—"

"It is," she went on. "It is exactly what you want to do."

"About that." Mr. White held up a finger. "Killing Mr. Connolly will not create the opportunity that Mr. Rippner believes it will. I have already explained that to him."

"I don't care about getting my job back."

"Good. Because I cannot give it to you."

Lisa heard that undertone, the darker one from earlier. "But you _can_ call off the cleanup crew, right?"

The look Mr. White sent her was both regretful and serious. "I am afraid, Miss Reisert," he said sadly, "That I cannot do that, either."

She had to grab the back of a chair to keep her knees from collapsing. If this man couldn't help them, who could? She hadn't known until now how much Jackson's faith in his plan had buoyed her own hope; no wonder he was so angry. She blinked and looked at Jackson now, fighting her shock and fear.

"Did you enjoy the meal?" Mr. White's question came from far away. She had to wrench her eyes from Jackson's to even think.

"I…I…"

Mr. White toasted her with the rest of his Scotch before downing it. "I hope you did," he went on as if she hadn't spoken, "It may be one of your last."

.-.-.-.-.


	11. Grasping at Straws

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye.**

.-.-.-.-.

Jackson muffled a curse and stalked over to the window, angrily flipping a dining chair out of his way. Mr. White _tsk_-ed and shook his head.

"Now, now, Mr. Rippner," he said in the same sympathetic voice, "There's no need to take out your frustrations on an innocent piece of furniture." The voice held a warning note as well, the underlying seriousness that belied his pleasant nature. "I would appreciate it if you did your stomping about somewhere else. Perhaps the upper deck?"

"Sure." The word came out like gravel; Lisa could practically feel the pain in her own throat when he spoke. She watched him shift from one foot to the other for a moment as he took several deep breaths, then he made a disgusted noise and strode from the room.

Lisa wondered if she should follow him; she didn't feel like staying in the room with Mr. White. Just as she made up her mind to go, however, he stopped her.

"Miss Reisert," he began, "I do want you to understand why I say I cannot help you."

"Why?" she said bitterly. "Why worry about what I think at this point?"

He nodded in understanding. "Of course, you're still upset about the incident a few years ago. Really, you're overreacting. I hold no ill will toward you for your part in that."

"How nice." She bit off the words. "How very magnanimous of you."

He sighed. "You do not grasp the situation, I'm afraid. This is my business. In my business, people tend to die. People betray and are, in turn, betrayed. Was I upset about Mr. Rippner's failure? Obviously. For someone like him to fail so…magnificently, shall we say, was quite a surprise. He underestimated you and your will to fight back." He poured himself another finger of scotch, adding ice this time. "It was nearly a fatal mistake on his part. You would have done what I did, if one of your employees botched a job that lost you an important customer. Even a star employee makes bad judgements, and sometimes they cannot be forgiven."

"So you fired him."

"Naturally." There was silence between them for a moment while he took a lingering sip of his drink. "However, as in any similar situation in legitimate business, I do not feel the need to exact revenge upon Mr. Rippner. Or you, or your family. You inconvenienced me, yes, but things happen. I simply can't hire him back; to do so would send the wrong impression to the rest of my staff."

The mention of her family caused her heart to twist within her chest. "Then why can't you call off the cleanup crew? Why can't you stop them, at least?"

Mr. White fixed her with a pitying look. "Because, just as you would not continue to pay or provide benefits for one of your former employees, neither can I offer protection to Mr. Rippner. I am truly sorry, but you are both on your own."

He turned his back to her, signaling gently that they were done discussing this for now. Lisa felt her chest heave, familiar panic setting in. She made herself calm, forced her breathing back to normal. When she felt sure her legs would not buckle under her weight, she went to the door.

"Miss Reisert," she heard Mr. White say, "I wish I could help you, I honestly do. You must understand my position."

"I do," she said quietly as she stepped out into the hall.

He said nothing more, and she closed the door behind her.

.-.-.-.-.

Mr. Vondar had told her not to wander about unescorted, but Lisa didn't feel like waiting in the hall until someone came to find her. She could see the ladder to the upper deck from here, and she needed fresh air before she ended up locked in another gilded cage.

She looked down the hall, and, seeing no one, climbed the ladder as quickly as she could. It passed through another empty hallway before she reached the top and pushed the hatch upward. The smell of the ocean hit her, as did the cool breeze from the waves. Half-wishing she had a wrap or jacket but unwilling to try going back to her room for one, she clambered out onto the deck. From where she stood, she saw no one save a guard stationed at the prow of the yacht. His eyes were fixed lazily on the ocean; either he hadn't heard her or simply didn't care.

A flash of white in the gloom at the stern made her crane her neck—Jackson. She shoved down the thought that he was the only familiar thing she had right now as she approached him. He was still angry, though a worrisome air of defeat seemed to have added its weight to his shoulders. His back was to her, his arms braced on the rail, his head down. Seeing him like this bothered her; the more out of control Jackson was, the less chance they had of making it out alive.

If they even had a chance, given what Mr. White had said.

Jackson heard her as she approached with caution. Without looking at her, he shook his head. "We are so very fucked right now."

The unexpected finality of the words infuriated her. "Way to go," she said icily. "Great mindset you have there, Mr. Rippner."

"Augh. Don't call me that," he replied, covering his face with his hands. "White thinks it's polite, but it grates on my nerves."

"So sorry. Didn't mean to disturb your fantastic sulk, _Mister_ Rippner, but I was kind of hoping we could maybe figure out a way to get out of this fiasco."

"Now you're just being a bitch," he snarled. "Why don't you go cry in your room or something?"

"I hate you." Lisa gripped the rail, her face hard, her jaw set. She wouldn't, couldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her cry. It was getting difficult to keep that vow. "I hate you so much, Jackson."

He snorted. "The feeling is mutual."

They stayed like that for a while, both stiff and seething, looking at the changing waves below and the churning wake of the yacht's powerful motor, not looking at each other for fear of seeing their dread mirrored on the other's face.

Finally, though, she couldn't help but steal a glance at him. She was startled to see a small bandage on his temple, something she hadn't noticed at dinner. Before she knew what she was doing, she had reached up to touch it. "Jackson, what—"

He slapped her hand away out of instinct, then grabbed it when he recognized what it was. Instead of letting her go, he pulled her hard against him. "Shut up," he hissed, burying his face in her hair, his voice a whisper. "Just shut up and don't say anything. You piss me off every time you open your goddamn mouth."

_How sweet to be needed,_ she thought wryly; she considered saying it aloud, but she knew that if she did, the moment would be lost. She let her arms wrap around his narrow waist, feeling the lump of his gun beneath the jacket. Even here, he went armed, it seemed; she wondered if Mr. White or Mr. Vondar knew or even cared about it. More important was why the hell she let him cling to her like this. She'd made it clear, she thought, that she was off-limits and that his attempts at seduction weren't going to go anywhere.

On the other hand, what was wrong with accepting a little warmth? Let him think she was doing this for his sake. She just didn't want to go back to her room right then. In light of all they had faced, all they had yet to face, she needed this tiny comfort, even if it was just for a moment.

Besides, she could always punch him in the mouth later.

.-.-.-.-.

Jackson only let go of her when Mr. Vondar came looking for her; even then, he was loath to release her into the other man's care. Mr. Vondar, however, would have none of it; he gently but firmly reminded Jackson that Mr. White had very strict instructions, and as guests of Mr. White, they had no choice but to obey. So it was that Lisa found herself back in her cabin again, where another plain white box rested on the bed.

"Clothes for tomorrow," supplied Mr. Vondar. "Mr. White wanted to be sure you would be properly dressed when we drop you and Mr. Rippner off at the marina in the morning."

She ran her fingertips over the box, thinking. "Mr. Vondar…"

"Yes?" He paused at the door.

"Why did Mr. White bring us here? Was it just to tell us that he couldn't help Jackson?"

The tall man shrugged his wide shoulders. "I can only assume that he wanted to tell Mr. Rippner to his face, Miss Reisert. Mr. Rippner was his best operative, and perhaps his favorite. And…" he trailed off.

"And?"

He smiled, a little sadly, she thought. "And I think he wanted to meet you personally. You are, after all, the one who _took down_ his best operative."

With that, he closed the door, leaving Lisa to herself and her thoughts.

.-.-.-.-.

Morning found them docked at the promised marina. Lisa donned the new clothes—a less dramatic navy blue suit and a pair of very dramatic-yet-matching Manolos—and was escorted by Mr. Vondar to the ramp. Jackson was already there, pacing on the dock in what appeared to be a new grey suit of his own. He hardly looked in her direction, merely nodded sharply to Mr. Vondar and took Lisa's arm, leading her away.

When they were a safe distance from the boat, she jerked her arm from his grasp. He tried to catch it again, but one look at her expression made him give up on the attempt. Instead, he marched to the BMW that someone had parked nearby. The laptop bag rested on the back seat. Lisa tried not to think about how someone had planned all this beforehand, down to making sure they had their own transportation when they were done. "Get in," he instructed, doing his slow inspection around the frame before flinging his door open and collapsing into the seat.

His fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, flexing and unflexing, restless. With a groan, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the backs of his hands. Lisa waited for him to get himself together, still upset about his behavior last night and Mr. White's admission.

At length, he expelled a breath. "Aren't you going to ask how I am? If I'm ok?" His words were mocking, daring her to ask her usual questions.

"No," she stated.

He looked over at her this time, seemed to take in what she was wearing. "Donna Karan looks good on you."

She glowered at him. "Why don't you just drive us to wherever and let's not chitchat?"

"I was just paying you a goddamn compliment."

"Yeah, well, I didn't choose the suit or the shoes. This wasn't exactly the way I imagined getting a pair of Manolos, thanks, and I don't really feel like talking about fashion with the world's biggest clotheshorse assassin—excuse me, _manager_—while my life and the lives of my family become harder and harder to save." She slumped against her seat. He was probably trying to salvage their tenuous—what, relationship?—but she didn't care at the moment. She just wanted to get the hell out of there, wanted her flannel PJs and her quiet existence back. "So just shut up and drive, and get your managerial brain back on track to keep us alive, okay?"

"Well, this is just peachy," he muttered, and started the car. "I'm officially in hell."

.-.-.-.-.

The drive back to her father's house was completed in strained silence. When they got there, Jackson grabbed his bag and mutely went to unlock the door of the house. Lisa followed him, then pushed past him to go up to her room.

He stopped her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Upstairs," she replied, as though he was stupid. He shook his head.

"You're going to get yourself killed if you're not careful. Wait here—_do not_ argue with me. You want to get through this alive? Fine. We play by my rules, and my rules say that we sweep the house every time we come in. That way we'll know if something is out of place."

"Don't you think you're being a little bit paranoid?"

The seriousness of his gaze made her stop. Softly, he said, "I have to be paranoid. It's the only reason we weren't blown up two days ago, and it's the only reason we aren't the ones lying in the alley, full of lead."

Lisa bit her lip and looked away. When she looked back, he was already making his rounds, checking cabinets and closets and every room of the house. _Did he always live like this?_ she wondered. What kind of existence was it to have to check every corner of your home, every time you came home? How did someone survive without trusting anyone? He hadn't even had a goldfish, nothing alive at all in that sad office apartment.

He came back down the stairs. "It looks clean. We'll be able to stay the night, but we leave first thing in the morning."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know yet." At her incredulous expression, he smiled darkly. "That's why we're not leaving until tomorrow."

"Wonderful. Then I guess I should go pack?"

"Sure, whatever." He was already not listening to her as he pulled out the laptop and the files. Within moments, he'd arranged everything on the kitchen island and powered up the computer.

Lisa watched him for a while, but he never looked up from his study of the screen and the files. She decided to leave him to his work and went upstairs.

She changed out of the suit and beautiful yet uncomfortable shoes in favor of something more relaxed. Following his lead, she chose an expanding leather travel bag that would be easier to stow than a hard suitcase and began to load it with whatever she thought could be necessary. The suit went in—it would be silly not to take it, and she didn't know when she might need it—as well as a good supply of socks, underwear, a pair of sneakers, jeans…by the time she was done, she had a wardrobe suitable for just about any situation. She went to the medicine chest and pulled down the first aid kit. Something told her that traveling anywhere with Jackson might not be exactly safe.

The bag wasn't too heavy when it was done, which made her happy. The last thing she needed was for her luggage to slow her down. She snapped the shoulder strap to the rings and set it by the door.

Once packed, there wasn't much else to do. She busied herself upstairs, going through her room and making note of the things she wanted to keep, things that other friends and family members would want as well. It was difficult in the beginning, but the current situation had hardened her a little and made it easier as she went on. She skipped lunch, still unwilling to talk to the mercurial Jackson, and when she was done with her room, she moved on to her father's.

By dinnertime, she was starving again. It couldn't be healthy for her to eat so erratically; she would have to go down and face Jackson at some point lest she pass out from hunger and give him one more thing to gripe about. She picked up the bag and headed downstairs.

Jackson was where she'd left him, perched on one of the barstools at the island. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his pale grey shirt. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he had tilted his head back to read the screen through them. When he heard her approach, he changed the position of his head so he could look at her over the tops of the frames. His eyes flickered to the bag, then back to hers. "Already packed?"

"Yeah," she said, dropping the bag by the island and coming around to look over his shoulder. "So where are we going?" The file with the photos was open, and she touched the one of her father and Jackson at the bar.

"Annapolis."

She looked sharply at him. "The hell we are." Cold comprehension dawned over her. "You're still going through with this idea of killing Connolly, aren't you?"

"Yes," he snapped, taking the picture from her again. "Just because White won't help doesn't mean I can't do this."

"Uhm, yes, Jackson, it does." She was near the end of her rope with him. She ignored the voice inside her that reminded her she was _always_ near the end of her rope with him. "He told you it's not going to make a difference. You're not getting your job back. You're not going to get the cleanup crew off your neck."

"No, White said _he_ can't call them off. I don't care about my job, Leese. I just want to stay alive at this point."

"Great, wow, so going to Annapolis and right into my boss's territory is such a smart way to do that. You know how many Secret Service agents know your face by memory? You can't blend in there the way you can here. Someone is going to notice you and someone is going to come gunning for you."

"Just like here," he amended. "You just summed up my life perfectly."

Lisa closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she opened them, he was putting the files away. "Wait," she said, putting her hand on the one with the photos. "Just tell me what you're planning. How is this going to help us? Why are you still going through with this?"

"You wouldn't understand."

His dismissal made her fume. "Well, maybe, just maybe, you should make me understand. You dragged me into this in the beginning, and you're dragging me along now. I can't help you, I can't even avoid being a liability to you unless you start to trust me with things." She slid the file from his reach and kept her eyes on his. "Everything. You have to let me help you, because otherwise I'm dead weight."

They were both standing now, almost nose to nose. For a heartbeat, Lisa thought he would try to kiss her again. When all he did was reach past her to take the file, she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

He didn't move away, however. The folder twirled in his fingers. "I don't tell you because I don't think you want to know. I really don't."

"I don't have a choice," she whispered, and they both knew she was right.

In the end, he just closed his eyes. "In the morning. We have a long drive ahead of us, and I'll tell you in the morning."

"Promise me," she insisted, believing in his truthfulness. She could read the capitulation in his face; the mask was gone again in favor of bone-weary acceptance.

"I promise," he said flatly. He raised a hand to her face, touched her lips lightly with his thumb. "But not until tomorrow."

Lisa stepped back, nodded. "Then goodnight, Jackson."

He smiled a little, ruefully. "Goodnight."


	12. Road Trip

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye or anything by Luc Besson.**

**_AN: Just a short update today; and a little revving up for the action that's on its way._  
**

.-.-.-.-.

Lisa scoured the refrigerator for anything else that might spoil and came up with enough bread, milk and eggs to make French toast for the two of them. While she cooked, Jackson took the remaining food and packed a tote bag for their trip. He planned to make the two- or three-day drive with as few stops as possible, so the snacks would come in handy.

They ate in silence. Neither one had spoken to the other all morning, each absorbed in the preparations to leave. When they were done, Jackson put his dishes into the sink and disappeared into the living room, only to reappear a moment later with his suitcase. He went upstairs, and soon Lisa heard the water turn on when he got into the shower. She felt a pang of possessiveness over the house, that he had just completely intruded upon her private life. Then again, she was about to spend a long time cooped up with him in the car; she couldn't deny that it would be easier to bear if he was at least clean.

Lisa made a few calls while she washed the dishes, uncaring that she was using the hot water. First was her mother, to apologize in advance in case she couldn't make it for Thanksgiving. She hated lying to her family, but she made up a story about needing to iron something out at work in Annapolis. The excuse didn't exactly work in that her mother sensed a lie, but they managed to get off the phone without arguing about it too much. In the end, Lisa broke down and told her mother that she just needed some time alone, and that a Thanksgiving celebration wasn't her idea of solitude. She was relieved to hear that she was of course still welcome, should she change her mind. There were two weeks before the holiday. Maybe she would be done with this nightmare before then.

Once she got herself together after hanging up with her mother, Lisa took a deep breath and called her lawyer to give him the same story. She told him that she would consider what to do with the house sometime after the holidays, when she could think. The lawyer was easier to convince, and he wished her well and offered his condolences for her father's death.

All that was left was to wait for Jackson's toilette. Lisa allowed herself to smirk a little as she took the trash to the curb. He spent more time primping than she did; it was amusing to think of him getting his hair just so, fixing the part so it fell into his eyes in just the right way.

"Lisa! Why, it really is you!"

She jumped, spun to face the source of the voice that came from behind her, then laughed in relief. "Mrs. Sotheby. I didn't even hear you come up."

Her old neighbor folded her hands, tugging on her dog's leash to keep him from sniffing at Lisa's trash. Lisa bent to scratch behind the papillon's ears. "I was so sorry to hear about your father. It was such a terrible business. Joe was a good man." She peered at Lisa's face, hunting for any sign that Lisa was not keeping herself up. "How have you been doing? Richard and I were just wondering if you were going to sell the house."

"I don't know yet," Lisa replied honestly. "I just told the lawyer that I'm going to think about it over the holidays. It's…too soon now."

Mrs. Sotheby nodded. "We'll all miss him. He used to pet Scooter when we came by on our walks, just like you're doing now." Her gaze flicked to the BMW. "Was that your boyfriend who came in with you?" she asked, eyes alight with speculation.

"Ah…" Lisa's mouth opened and closed a few times. "J—no, no, he's just a friend." She was aware of how the older woman failed to believe her.

Though she said no more about it, it was obvious that Mrs. Sotheby was torn between enjoying the idea that she'd figured out some gossip and her automatic disapproval of two unmarried people spending the night under one roof. "Well, I hope his car works better now. Richard was chuckling at the idea of 'all that German engineering' always needing to be fixed."

"What?" Lisa was confused. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, he saw the men who were here earlier, working on the car. The tow truck in the road." Mrs. Sotheby looked at Lisa as if she should know what she was talking about.

Lisa felt a chill run up her spine. "Right! Silly me. Sorry, my mind has been wandering. Yeah, I think it's got to be better now." She had to get inside as soon as possible. "Listen, I've got a ton to do, actually, I'm sorry. Don't mean to cut you off, but—"

"Say no more." Mrs. Sotheby tugged on her dog's leash. "Come on, Scooter, let's get going. Lisa, drop by next time you're in town. You can even bring your…'friend'." She tittered. "Take care, sweetie!"

The pair walked away, followed by a halfhearted wave from Lisa, who promptly dropped her hand when they rounded the corner. She nearly ran into the house, burst into the kitchen to see Jackson coming down the stairs. He looked more like himself, showered, shaven, dressed in another of his expensive suits. At the sight of her expression, his brows knit. She saw his hand go behind his back. "What is it?"

"You didn't call a mechanic for your BMW this morning, did you?"

"No." He looked quizzical, then understanding dawned. "Shit."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she said as she slumped against the counter. "One of the neighbors saw some men working on it. Said they had a tow truck and everything."

He let loose a string of expletives, tossing his bag to the floor. "Well that's just fan-fucking-tastic. I love that car." He paced a few times, taking a look at the driveway through the curtain in the door. "Okay, let's think. Don't touch it, don't even try the doors. The whole thing could be wired to blow."

"Are you sure that's the case?"

He shook his head, but said, "I don't want to take the chance. Our hunters have already proven their fascination with explosives; after failing with my office and the parking garage, I wouldn't be surprised if they were a little more thorough this time. Crap."

"So what now?" Lisa felt panic creep over her. "We can't just call a taxi to drive us to Maryland."

"No, we can't. Or—wait." He gave her a strange look. "Maybe we can."

Lisa raised a brow at this. She watched him whip out his cell phone and dial a number. While it rang, he again moved the curtain on the door to look wistfully out at his car.

Suddenly, he was all business. "Good morning. Are you in Miami? Excellent. I need a driver, as soon as possible. Annapolis. Two passengers, one male, one female. Yes. The usual. It's about eight thirty." He paused, sighed, rolled his eyes and checked his Bvlgari with a flourish. He stared at the watch's face for a few seconds, then, "It's eight twenty-six…now." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Great, see you in…seventeen minutes."

"That was, ah, specific." Lisa noticed that he had synchronized the watch upon saying the time.

"The driver likes to be punctual." He sighed as he put the phone away. "Very punctual."

.-.-.-.-.

Fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, Jackson informed her that they would be leaving. She picked up her bag and followed him out the front door. He stood in her driveway for a moment, expressions warring on his face as he studied his car with longing. She could swear she heard him mutter, "Don't worry, baby, if those bastards hurt you, they'll pay," but he quickly shut his mouth when she got close.

"Men and their cars," she deadpanned. "Where's your driver?"

He sent her a peeved look, but before he could say anything, a black Audi approached the house and pulled up to the curb, purring. Jackson's expression changed to one of triumph. "Seventeen minutes," he grinned wolfishly.

There was the sound of doors unlocking, and Jackson moved to the trunk, which also opened on cue. While he stowed their bags, Lisa went to open the back door.

Another man's hand reached it first, smoothly lifting the handle and opening it in one motion. She glanced up in surprise.

"Miss," the man inclined his head. He was taller than Jackson, hawk-nosed and chiseled, with thinning hair cut close, almost military-style. Something told her he didn't spend all his time in the driver's seat—perhaps it was the way he filled out the shoulders of his immaculate black suit. He certainly didn't look the way she expected a hired driver to look, though when she gave him a tentative smile, she received a pleasant one in return. "Allow me. Watch your head."

She caught the clipped British accent in his voice, a far cry from the tough _patois_ she anticipated. "Thank you," she replied. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson scowl as he got in on the driver's side while she settled herself on the pristine black leather of the seat. The other man sent her another smile and shut the door, not too hard. He seemed to cherish his car even more than Jackson did the BMW.

The driver slid into his own seat as though he'd practiced the motion, touched a panel that locked the doors, smoothly pulled away from the curb. Jackson produced his phone once again and handed it to Lisa.

"Call the police," he growled.

"What?"

"They can't trace my phone. Call them and tell them to send the bomb squad after my car."

She looked at him, dubious. "Why don't you? Anyway, won't they think it's weird to get a tip like that from someone random?"

"Just tell them you saw some suspicious activity," he insisted. "I don't care what, just get them out there to fix my fucking car."

The driver glanced at Jackson in the rear-view mirror. "I wondered why you left it behind. I didn't think you'd part with that piece of sh—"

"Frank." Jackson closed his eyes; Lisa could swear he was taking a page from her book and counting to ten.

While Jackson wasn't looking, 'Frank' met Lisa's eyes in the mirror and winked. She stifled a grin before Jackson could see as she took the phone. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."

.-.-.-.-.


	13. A Father's Vengeance

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye or The Transporter.**

**_AN: Kudos to all who figured out who 'Frank' was. Yes, he is the Transporter, Frank Martin. I think he and Jackson totally live in the same universe. The fact that Frank lives in Miami in Transporter 2 and both that movie and Red Eye came out around the same time caused a plotbunny to form…what if their paths crossed? I adore Frank. If this keeps up, he'll have a fic of his own one day._**

****.-.-.-.-.

The driver's name was Frank Martin; he spoke little but when he did, it was politely to Lisa and with professional humor to Jackson, who was still distraught about his car. A mild rivalry between the two had developed over time; though they both loved their German cars, Frank went with Audi while Jackson preferred his BMWs. It obviously grated at Jackson to have to rely on Frank's car when his own was being held hostage.

Two or three hours passed almost pleasantly for Lisa, listening to them banter while she watched the scenery out her window. Frank struck her as Jackson's opposite. Though they shared a love of some things like their cars, their suits, their reputations, they had differing viewpoints on how they worked. Frank revealed that he was more hands-on, not unwilling to physically fight his way out of a situation. Indeed, his job seemed to require it much of the time. Jackson's point of view was far more hands-off in contrast, where he hired others to do the dirty work. Frank pointed out that his approach was more honest and straightforward. Jackson replied that his method meant he'd likely stay alive longer. Lisa found herself laughing quietly at both of them, until Frank brought up a past job they'd done together.

"There was that one time you did get your hands dirty," Frank was saying, "I remember, since I was driving for you."

He didn't seem to notice the glare that Jackson sent him. Lisa was surprised at the change in Jackson's posture, one moment relaxed, the next, stiff and angry.

Frank went on, unaware. "Your client was a good guy. He didn't even flinch when you got back."

"Enough," snapped Jackson, startling both Lisa and Frank with the vehemence in his voice. "I don't want to talk about that."

Frank shrugged and went back to his driving. The light mood had dissipated; Jackson stared morosely out his window as the miles ticked by. Lisa simply watched him, studied his face and wondered about his curious change of mood.

She didn't think he noticed, but then he swung his head around to look her in the eye. "You really want to know, Leese?" he asked fiercely. "Want to hear about how I actually killed someone on purpose? How I got my hands dirty for money?"

"I don't know," she shot back. "I'm not the one sulking here."

Frank snorted; suddenly, his eyes were fixed firmly upon the road when Jackson sent a glare at the back of his head. Jackson turned to Lisa, angry. "Sulking? You have no idea. I would have been very happy never to see or hear or even think about you again, but I had no choice." He paused, then, with sadistic relish, he informed her, "Your dad hired me."

Lisa felt the blood drain from her face; her hand went subconsciously to her scar. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Jackson's. At length, she asked in a shaky voice, "H…he hired you?" Then, more firmly, "After what you did to us?"

"Funny how life works, isn't it? Though Joe…" he trailed off. "Joe wasn't what I thought he was, any more than you turned out to be what I thought you were. He wanted me to help him find the man who hurt his little girl. The one _before_ me," he added spitefully. "That was part of our agreement." He swore under his breath and ran his fingers through his hair. She read his face the reluctance to tell her anything at all, the recollection that he'd promised to tell her everything.

She also saw that he regretted that promise already. "You're not getting out of this," she warned, and he shot her an unreadable look.

"Do you want to hear or not?"

She waited. Frank drove without a word, without even a look back.

Jackson sighed. "I told you Joe visited me in the hospital. He wanted me to know that if I ever hurt you again, he would be ready. That the only reason I overpowered him the last time had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with surprise. I should have realized it the moment he picked up the gun; he knew exactly how to handle it. At that point, though I had become careless and wasn't thinking or else I'd have figured it out."

"He was in the war," she murmured. "Dad was a veteran. He fought in Vietnam, right at the end."

"Yeah." He gave a thoughtful sigh. "Just another tidbit I didn't have about him."

"For someone who manages such high-profile crimes, your information network is sadly lacking," she said flatly. "Go on."

If her jab stung him, he didn't show it. "So I got out of the hospital. I had already determined not to run across your paths again; I needed to build my name back up after I was fired," he went on, sounding disgusted. "What I didn't know was that Joe had some connections of his own, some old Army buddies who owed him favors. He had them find me and pull me back out in the sun to dry." He stopped, glancing down at his hands. "Your dad could be pretty persuasive. He had something to hold over me, and I didn't have a choice. I couldn't turn him down."

"What did he have?" Lisa almost didn't ask the question; she was unwilling to stop this confession.

He gave her another of his rueful, wry smiles, his eyes hooded. "My failure. The mere fact that he lived. I couldn't touch him. Or you, honestly—if I had, I would have been taken out in a heartbeat. Vengeful managers are dead managers. Why do you think I was fired?" He laughed with no humor. "Because I failed my mission? Of course not. Missions go badly all the time. I was fired because I let the job become personal.

"But back to Joe. He approached me like a client looking for a freelancer, so I went to meet him at a cozy little bar and too late, I realized who he was. I would have walked out, but he was waiting for me, called me over to him across the room _by name_. 'Jackson Rippner, the man who tried to kill my daughter', he called me, like an old friend, laughing with the bouncer and the barkeep and every fucking person in the place. They all knew who I was."

His hands clenched at the memory of the humiliation. "I had to stay there and take it," he hissed. "Two hours of your dad telling the story about how you took me down with your trusty field hockey stick, your shoes, your goddamn luck. It was like being at a class reunion with every person you ever hated in school, only worse. I'm not a fighter, I'm a manager. I arrange things, set up schedules, hire subcontractors like hit men and drivers. There was no way I could leave without going through a half dozen people who could break me in two. So I sat there, drank Guinness, smiled whenever your dad thumped me on the shoulder and told some detail like it was a joke at my expense."

Lisa felt a momentary sense of achievement. Her father had outwitted Jackson on his own terms, taken him down in such a way that left Jackson at Joe's mercy in front of too many witnesses for Jackson to retaliate. She cheered her father's method, wished she could have been there to see it herself.

Jackson read this on her face and poorly hid a sneer. "I'm glad you find this entertaining."

"Naturally, I do." She lifted her chin. "It was the best you deserved."

He looked away. "I thought that meeting would never end. Someone took our picture at one point—that's the one you keep trying to look at. 'Smile for the camera', Joe was saying, while everyone around us laughed at me and egged him on." He stared out the window as he spoke. "Finally, at the end of the night, when I hoped I could escape, Joe suddenly became serious and got down to business.

"Apparently, he really did want my services. He had the money, and now he had backup, and at that point, I couldn't turn him down. I needed the work. I needed to rebuild my reputation; there is nothing like working off a debt to a former enemy to do that. So he told me: 'I want you to find the man who hurt my little girl, and I want you make sure he never hurts another living being.' I thought he was crazy, or at least joking, but he meant it."

Lisa shuddered, wrapped her arms around herself. Her father had solicited one of her tormentors to…what, kill the other?

As if she'd spoken the thought aloud, Jackson shook his head. "He wasn't asking me to kill the guy—just persuade him. Using whatever means necessary." He smirked. "I never would have pegged your dad as the vengeful type, but I guess I snapped something inside him. When all was said and done, I had to admire him. 'Never again' seems to be your family motto."

She bit her lip, closed her eyes. There had been a period when her father had seemed distracted, the year after she'd moved north. It was clear now just what had been bothering him.

Jackson gave an introspective little laugh that made her look up at him again. "It was easier than I expected to find the guy. He had stayed in Miami, had been taken in on a separate—but very similar—rape charge shortly after yours and after eighteen months, he was back out on the street. He lived alone." Jackson's tone changed to one of disgust. "When I broke into his place, he hardly even fought back, he was so drunk. I thought I'd pass out from the smell."

"You don't have to tell me this anymore," she whispered. Jackson's tale brought too many memories, too many nightmares to life. Though on some level she wanted to know what he'd done, another part of her resisted the temptation and begged to leave the past alone.

He, however, wouldn't let her. "Oh, but Leese," he murmured, leaning close, enjoying her discomfort, "I'm just getting to the best part." He grinned again, having fun once more now that he saw her back away from the story. "You wanted me to tell you, remember? Where was I—oh, yes. So I had gone in after tracking that worthless waste of carbon for weeks. I'd called Frank here to drive us, since I didn't want anything to go wrong. Your dad insisted on coming, too, though I made him wait down in the car. I went up alone, planning on smacking the guy around a little, threatening him. You know what I mean."

"Stop it." She couldn't look away; the old fear, the old helplessness rose in her chest but she couldn't look away from Jackson's fierce blue gaze. He held her transfixed with his hypnotic voice and her own morbid desire to know the fate of her first attacker.

He went on, ruthless, savoring the telling. "But I didn't expect that, when I got there, something else would take over. I saw him on the floor where I'd thrown him, frightened and whimpering, moaning, begging for his life. I kicked him in the gut, ready to make my last threats and leave, when something caught my eye."

Neither of them looked away now. In the mirror, Frank's eyes flickered to them once or twice, but he stayed out of it and drove.

"In my research, I had learned what the psychiatrists and the prison counselors decided about him—that this piece of shit was just misguided, struggling with power issues and his way of coping was to attack defenseless women. They let him go on a suspended sentence because he had 'changed'," Jackson spat. "But I found out the truth. He was a hunter, Leese. A hunter who took trophies and put them in a little framed shadow box on the wall as a reminder of what he had done."

He was angry now, but not at her. He was angry at the man, angry at himself for being angry at all. She felt like she would suffocate in the heavy air. She had to gasp in order to speak. "Trophies…?"

His eyes went cold, the mask dropping back into place with difficulty. "Every girl he raped—" She flinched at the word, spoken with such venom, "—every single one, he took something. I saw which one was yours even from across the room. I got a close enough look at a field hockey stick to recognize it at a glance. You had a keychain of one, didn't you? A little one, painted with your school colors."

Lisa thought she would break. She had forgotten, believed it had just fallen off sometime, never gave much thought to its fate. It was such a small thing, so minor and silly.

"And you know what, Leese?" His voice dropped, the words low, the rasp turning his tone to gravel. "Suddenly, I understood what drove Joe to do this. Why he hired me to find this asshole and teach him a lesson. And I decided that the lesson was going to be the last one he ever learned."

"You killed him." She almost mouthed the words, knowing they were true. "Why…what—why did it matter?"

"Because when I followed you, when I did things to you, I had a reason. Disagree with the reason all you like, but it was there. You were chosen deliberately for your job, and until you stabbed me, I had no plans to hurt you or Joe if at all possible." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Then there was this guy who had no reason. He just wanted to hurt someone, and you were his target. He followed you and didn't know who or what you were, just that you were female and pretty and vulnerable. And then he marked you, like a hunter wounding a deer and leaving it caught in a trap. And you weren't the only one. And I saw, in that moment, the difference between him and me, and how much smaller that difference almost became when I went after you."

Her heart ached for all the other victims, the other girls who shared her experience. She wondered how many of them would ever notice something missing, some shred of their dignity always enshrined on their attacker's wall. She shuddered violently, and only then could she look away.

The action broke the tension between them; Jackson shifted, too, and was quiet for a while as he collected his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice had regained some normality. "I put my gun to his forehead, shot him twice and took the box down from the wall. It was easy enough to light it on fire, to drop it on the table covered with papers and food boxes and all the other crap the guy had collected. Then I left, came downstairs, pulled the fire alarm, and then we took off. Your dad just looked at me in the car. He never asked me what I did, but I think he knew. He paid me, and we never brought it up again."

.-.-.-.-.

Miles of highway passed before anyone spoke, mile after mile of dark road hissing white noise under the Audi's tires. When they pulled off the road to fill up at a gas station, everyone got out to stretch their legs.

"I'm going to get something to drink," announced Jackson. To Lisa, he said, "Don't wander far."

She didn't answer him beyond a nod. He watched her for a moment, then went into the convenience store. Frank was busy pumping gas. Lisa needed a moment of quiet, so she walked to the guard rail at the edge of the road.

Nothing much was around; there was the garishly-lit station, a McDonald's, a few dark buildings, one of which had a 'For Rent' sign in the window. The other side of the street was largely uninhabited save for the ubiquitous kudzu and some highway trees. She wrapped her arms around herself again, looked up at the night sky.

In all her nightmares, the ones she had about that horrifying day, she had never thought to wonder if anyone else had been attacked by her rapist. She hadn't even known his name to press charges, could hardly remember what he'd looked like even though the rest she recalled in too-vivid detail. When Jackson had told her about finding him, she had wondered how he could have done so. She felt a sense of isolation; what if she had gone looking for other women who had endured her horror? Did they feel the same way she did, that there couldn't possibly be anyone out there who understood?

She shivered. The man was dead, and had been for a couple of years, and she hadn't known. There had never been a sense of relief for no reason, never a stray thought that she was safe. Funny; she'd always thought that her scar would tingle or she would get some sign that it was over. Of course, she hadn't gotten a sign about her father, either, and had to be told by police officers she didn't know.

The crunch of gravel behind her announced Jackson's presence. She wondered if he was making the noise on purpose. "Frank's all set," he said. "Water?"

Lisa took the bottle and cracked it open, suddenly thirsty. When she had taken a long drink, she saw him already walking away. "Jackson—"

He paused, half looked over his shoulder, said nothing.

"Thank you." They were two of the hardest, truest words she'd ever spoken in her life.

Even from behind, she could see the set of his shoulders change, could almost feel the quiet sigh. She imagined he must have closed his eyes, contemplating. Then he was walking away again, back to the car, leaving her to collect herself before she followed.

.-.-.-.-.

**_AN2: As much as I dislike 'explaining' things about my writing, I decided that the issue that inspired Joe's actions really needed to be brought up. Since this isn't really the place to do so, I would like to ask you all to check out my LiveJournal for the whole story. You can find it friends-locked at divinebird DOT livejournal DOT com under the subject line "Parents, Soldiers, Criminals". Please do look, comment, whatever._**

**_And now you have a little look into how I approach my writing, and what influences my characters' emotions. Thank you all for reading so far, and I hope you continue to read through the end._**


	14. At the Magnolia Inn

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye or the Transporter.**

.-.-.-.-.

Route 95 North felt like forever.

After the fill-up, the mood in the car was quiet but less intense. No one felt much like talking; Frank drove, Jackson and Lisa were both lost in their thoughts. From time to time, she could feel Jackson look over at her, though he never spoke.

She had meant it, when she thanked him, meant it more than she ever had. She also knew she was thanking her father. When he was alive, they hadn't talked about her experience more than they'd had to, so she had never fully realized the depth of his feeling before.

Jackson's revelation about how he'd thought of himself was another morsel she could digest. Not until he'd said that had she actually believed him about his friendship with her father. But now…now she could understand, now she could see it. The story of Joe's revenge on both Jackson and the nameless rapist had happened a good two years ago. Why would they still have talked afterward?

He was reading her thoughts again. "Joe figured we were even," he said softly, making her start. When he had her attention, he went on. "After that day. He contacted me again on his own and invited me out for a drink. I accepted."

"I wonder why." There was no accusation, just the simple query.

He shrugged. "I don't know. He never wanted to discuss it, and I was fine with that. I guess I kept going to meet him out of the expectation he'd explain himself someday. He never did."

"You said you and he had an agreement?"

"Yeah." Jackson idly stroked the soft black leather of the seat, avoiding her face. "He promised not to press charges or turn me in after the job, but he told me the only way to earn his forgiveness was to make sure nothing like that happened to you again."

Lisa shook her head. "God, Dad. Why didn't he ever tell me?"

"Don't you think the idea would have made you mad?" An easier smile had appeared. It both surprised and pleased Lisa.

"Don't you think I'd have been furious to find out you were still keeping tabs on me?" She answered in kind, let herself smile back. "I think I'd have thought my dad was crazy. I still think he was." She actually chuckled. "But I guess it's a moot point. Here you are."

"Here I am," he agreed, and they fell silent again.

Frank spoke up. "If you aren't expecting me to drive for sixteen hours straight, we should probably find a place for the night. You didn't happen to make reservations you forgot to mention to me, did you?"

Jackson slumped. "No. Shit." He looked out at the signs on the road. "I had been planning for us to take turns driving."

That was news to Lisa. "You'd have let me drive your beemer?" She asked, disbelief evident in her tone.

"It would have been necessary," he retorted. "But Frank won't let anyone else touch his precious car."

"Least of all, you," Frank snorted. "I didn't pay to have her shipped across the Atlantic only to get her paint chipped by some American who thinks he can out-Bond my homeland's dear Double-Oh-Seven. You're reckless."

Lisa interrupted them, laughing for real. "Boys, boys, calm yourselves." She fished around in her purse for her cell. "Now…let's see."

The men waited, interested, while she dialed a number.

"_Good evenin'_," a deliberately accented female voice answered. "_Thanks for callin' Magnolia Inn. This is Diana, how can I help you?_"

"Hello, I'm looking for Vince Mayfield. Is he in?"

"_One moment, ma'am_."

There was a click of being put on hold, then someone else picked up. "_Vincent Mayfield speakin'. How may ah help you?_"

"Vince, is that you? You sound like Foghorn Leghorn."

"_Excu—Lisa!"_ The voice changed immediately. _"I wasn't expecting it to be you."_

"I know," she laughed. "What's with the fake accent?"

"_Ahh, that. We found that customers reacted better to the more 'authentic' sound. Mine's pretty bad, but Diana does a better job. I sound too much like a Yankee pretending to be a local. Which is about right."_

"You're telling me." Lisa ignored the two men who looked on with interest. "Listen, I know it's short notice, but I'm in South Carolina unexpectedly and I need a room for the night. Do you have a suite available?"

"_For you? Anything."_ The sound of computer keys ticking, then, _"I have a nice set of rooms on the third floor."_

"How many beds?"

"_One, a queen. What do you need?"_

Her glance flickered to Jackson, then Frank, then back to Jackson. "Add two cots in the second room, please. I have a driver and a…" She was at a momentary loss as to what to call Jackson, then it came to her. She smirked. "…a bodyguard with me."

She could practically hear Vince's eyebrows climb upward. _"A bodyguard? Really?"_

"Yeah." She decided to roll with it. "It's actually not exactly something I can discuss without a security clearance. Sorry, Vince."

"_No, no problem!"_ He sounded impressed. _"When do you think you'll be in?"_

"Within the hour. Have Room Service send up something, too. We haven't had much chance to eat today. Oh, and a nice wine. I could use a drink."

When she ended the call, Frank was already calling up a GPS map on a screen that had been hidden behind the cd player face. "Magnolia Inn, you said?"

She nodded and gave him the address, then stretched. "It's a really nice place."

"You sound like you've been there."

Lisa smiled at Jackson, definitely in a better mood now. "I have, a few times. Vince is one of the few people I kept in contact with after college. He only bills me for things like the food, never for the room. Of course," she grinned, "Now I have a staff credit card, so Keefe pays for it all."

.-.-.-.-.

The inn was, like so many in the area, a renovated Civil War building, all in white with an enclosed veranda. Frank dropped them off in front and then took the car around back. Vince came out to greet them. He offered his arm to Lisa, grandly guiding her up the steps while Jackson trailed behind.

"What do you think?" Vince gestured. "We redid the entryway; it was starting to fade a little, if you know what I mean."

"It's perfect," Lisa replied warmly. "I'm sorry I can't stay long this time. As much as I'd love to catch up, I really just need to get some sleep. We have an early start in the morning."

"Of course, of course." He seemed disappointed, but he handed her the key. "I already checked you in, so just follow me up and we'll get you settled. Is this your…ah…"

"Bodyguard, yes." Jackson flashed what Lisa instantly recognized as a patently false smile and pushed past Vince. "Excuse me, I'm going to sweep the room."

Vince looked perplexed. "S—sweep?"

"He means he's going to make sure it's safe." Lisa patted his arm. "It's ok. We do this all the time."

Jackson stuck his head out into the hall. "It's clean, Miss Reisert." He held out his hand.

She suppressed a sigh and took it. "Goonight, Vince. I'll call you when I have some time."

"Do that. It would be nice to get together for coffee sometime." He held out his hand to Jackson, who pretended to be engrossed in the door to the main bathroom. After a moment, Vince awkwardly let it fall and took his leave.

When he had gone, Lisa shut the door and quirked an eyebrow at Jackson. "Miss Reisert? I could get used to you calling me that."

"Don't," he warned, though the word lacked heat. He nodded to the cart that had already been placed in the room. "Nice of Keefe to foot the bill."

"Being a government employee has its perks. And you didn't need to be so mean to Vince. He's a good guy." She was delighted to find a selection of bread, thickly-sliced meats, and crisp lettuce leaves as well as some other garden vegetables. Metal cups of mayonnaise and different kinds of dressings divided the platter, and nearby a bucket of ice held several bottles of chilled water. Another, separate bucket contained a bottle of champagne and a pair of glasses.

"Everyone is a good guy to you, Leese, except me." He examined the label on the champagne. "Moët," he said, sounding a little put out. "I'm surprised it's not something more—"

"Expensive?"

"High-end." He gave her a sardonic smirk and uncorked it. "Either way, best not to let it go to waste."

She chewed on her sandwich thoughtfully as he poured them each a glass. "What, none for Frank?"

"Frank's just the driver," he grinned. The door clicked, and instantly Jackson was on full alert.

"It's just me." The door shut automatically behind Frank as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "Just the driver."

Jackson visibly relaxed and took a sip of his champagne. "Would you like some?"

"Nah. I'm working." Frank nodded to the other door. "That my room?"

Lisa opened it for him. "Everything you need should be in there. There's a door to your own bathroom, too."

"Then if you'll not be needing me, I'll turn in for the night." He dropped his bag and tested the cots, choosing the one by the window. "I'm up at dawn, and I'll be ready to go whenever you are."

Jackson glanced in, noted the cots with distaste. "Feel like sitting in with us while we work out what to do next?" His offer seemed genuine, but Lisa got the feeling that he really didn't want Frank to say yes.

Frank seemed to pick up on the same idea. "Thanks, but that would be akin to opening the package, now, wouldn't it?" He grinned at Jackson, who returned the expression and saluted him with the champagne glass.

"Of course. I'll be in in a bit, then. Try not to kill me if I wake you up."

Frank only laughed. Lisa rolled her eyes and shut the door. "Boys."

"You've never seen him wake up," Jackson reminded her. "On that note, make yourself comfortable. You want to know what I'm doing, you'll hear it."

She didn't know if she liked the sound of that, but kept the thought to herself. Instead, she made another sandwich and picked up her untouched champagne. Kicking off her shoes, she settled herself on the bed, legs stretched out in front of her, the food balanced on a plate on the nightstand. Jackson made something for himself—all vegetables, she noted—and grabbed the chair from the cherry desk. He set his own food down on the desk and unloaded his files on the foot of the bed, once more putting them into a neat stack. The laptop came out as well.

Lisa watched him pull out his glasses and put them on. She rather liked them; they made him look like a banker or a lawyer, someone in a more acceptable profession than international outlaw. It was harder to remember that he was a killer, whether he liked to be or not, when he looked like nothing more than a harried businessman. He moved one of the files too close to her legs, and instinctively she drew them away. The action made him look up at her; their eyes met across the length of the bed, over the tops of his glasses, through the hair that kept falling in front of his face no matter what he did.

Then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He looked back down at the files as though nothing had happened. Lisa felt a little chilled, a little lightheaded. She took another sip of champagne and waited for him to speak.

"Tomorrow," he began, "We will pass through North Carolina and then into Virginia. I plan to stop here, in Fredericksburg." The laptop was spun to face her, a red dot marking a map online. "There's a coffeeshop where we'll be meeting a contact of mine."

She looked up. "A contact?"

"I need information before I can proceed. This is frustrating; nothing I get is certified first-hand, but I have to deal with what's available." He gritted his teeth, and she knew it must gall him not to have access to the network his old job had afforded him. Jackson dealt with absolutes, certainties, well-researched dossiers. "My contact is someone who knows someone else who can get me Rowe's schedule, which will help me determine what the best time is to hit Connolly."

Right, they were still planning to assassinate someone. Lisa felt her head begin to ache again, right at the temples. "I stand by my earlier statement. This is a bad idea, Jackson."

"We don't have a choice." He seemed to get the same ache; he rubbed at his own temples before taking another sip of champagne. "As pleasant as I'm sure you find traveling with me, I don't think you want to spend the rest of your life on the run. Not to mention your whole family and the Keefes are still at risk."

Lisa bit her lip, thought, looked away. "There has to be a better way."

"Can you think of one? 'Cause I'd really love to hear it right about now."

"No."

He was quiet for a while. "You already know how much I don't want to do this. I know it's not going to get my job back for me, but wouldn't it be nice to be able to walk around on the street without dodging the kind of attacks we've been dodging for the last few days?"

She could only nod.

"Unfortunately, that's really all I have right now. I'm making this up as I go, so I don't have more planned out than that. We'll know more tomorrow afternoon." He closed the laptop, powering it down, and put it away. "Frank has the right idea; we should get some rest." He reached for the pile of folders.

Lisa decided she was tired of seeing the mysterious folders in their piles, never opened, always ready. She was tired of having them taken away before she could look at anything. Without another thought, she scrambled across the bed on her hands and knees, slapped her hand down on the one he had just picked up. His head snapped up, startled. She kept her eyes on his and slid the folder back toward herself, slipped a finger under the cover.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, a little breathlessly.

"Research of my own," she replied. When she looked down at the label, the name and the three-year-old date, she felt her chest constrict. She swept the folder open.

An 8x10 black and white photo of herself lay atop of a stack of neatly-written notes on yellow legal paper. She was getting out of a taxi, looking at something over her shoulder, even as her body was turned the other direction. It was a good photo, technically, catching her in a moment that made her look like a poster girl for the modern working woman. Her luggage was on the sidewalk, the extendable handle already in her hand, her suit was pressed and perfect. As if on cue, a city breeze had picked up a tendril of her hair and she was in the act of absently pulling it back, probably tucking it behind her ear. The taxi door hid the front of her body but the line of her back was fully visible; just the right curve, just the right angle to show that she was fit and healthy. It was, all in all, the quintessential picture of her life as a hotel manager on the move. She couldn't have planned a better image.

She could sense Jackson standing at the foot of the bed, nervous, but she ignored him and leafed through the notes. There were pages and pages of them, all in the same precise handwriting, each letter effortlessly scribed in print that reminded her of blueprints and drafters' annotations. Her daily routine was first, a detailed account of when she woke, what she did first, second, third, onward. _Hits snooze alarm twice. Gets up at third alarm, goes into bathroom. Drinks one(8 oz?) glass of water, then takes one pill. Brushes teeth. Closes door. Shower, ten to twenty minutes._

The next few pages went on like this. Her weekend routines were kept separate with a paper clip; deviations were highlighted, then noted further if they proved to be part of a larger routine, such as her Friday night drink at a restaurant bar. She skipped ahead. Here she found her personal tastes listed: colors she wore, styles, brand names. Foods preferred. Magazines she read, shows she watched, shows she flipped past. Books she bought. How many times a day she talked to her father.

Lisa pressed her fingers down then, covering the number. She didn't know how she felt to see it all written out like this. She had known Jackson kept meticulous notes on her, but she hadn't thought of what they would contain. She hadn't visualized a tidy file folder with her name printed on it, hadn't imagined the photo, though she could think of a dozen similar times it might have been taken.

"Leese," Jackson said quietly, making her jump. She realized her hand was shaking. "Leese?" His own hands came into view, carefully placing the photo back on top of the notes and closing the folder. He tugged it out of her grasp and added it to the ones in the laptop bag.

She felt very cold, very light. She hugged her arms to herself, rubbing them as if to get warm.

"You ok?" He actually sounded worried. "Leese?"

"Yeah."

The laptop bag disappeared from sight, placed on the floor beside his suitcase. He put the chair back under the desk and came back to sit on the edge of the bed. She could feel the mattress compress under his weight, the bed tilt as he leaned over to peer up at her face. "Are you s—"

"Don't." Each indrawn breath caught, threatened to pull her over the edge to tears. "Don't you dare ask me that. You of all people know better."

"There's a reason your dad kept asking you, you know." She glowered at him, but he went on. "Because he didn't actually ever believe you when you said you were fine. I'm starting to understand. You're a very poor liar."

Suddenly he was _there_, and she wasn't moving out of the way, just…down, to her back, with Jackson above. She hadn't expected him to lean in, to put an arm on either side of her head, to study her with his inscrutable, wintry eyes. She froze then, hardly breathed, at once terrified and electrified.

"What are you doing?" She barely whispered. He was so close to her, she feared that if she spoke too clearly her lips would brush his. If they did, it would be all over. It had been hard enough to stop days ago, but if he kissed her now? She lacked the inner strength or the power of will to make herself pull away.

"I don't know," he replied simply, quietly. There was bitterness in his voice, but there was confusion, too—signs of conflict within, something she at least understood. "I never know what I'm doing around you." He let his head drop to hers, at the last moment turning his face so he laid his cheek against hers. She stared up at the ceiling, blinking, fighting the rise and fall of her chest. "You're not pushing me away, I couldn't help but notice." His voice had lowered as well, the words making warm swirls against her ear.

She kept her breathing shallow, though his observation was disconcerting. Her arms hadn't come up to stop him, nor had her legs moved to kick him back. She moved a hand just to see if she could—just fine. Maybe it was the champagne? "So now what?"

His body lowered, almost imperceptibly, still hovering inches above hers, but she felt the difference. It was like being in a room where the ceiling was slowly coming down, or like watching a blanket float downward to cover her in comfort. "We could do one of several things," he murmured against her neck. The contact came as a shock, one that made her skin tighten, made the hairs on her arms stand up, made her gasp—which in turn made her chest come into contact with his. Together, this time, they stilled, then he pulled back to gaze down at her.

Seconds could have passed, or minutes, hours. Then he smiled softly, tilted his head, shifted so his mouth nearly touched hers. "You have to meet me halfway," he said, lips so close but just out of reach. "You have to make the last decision. I already showed you what I want, Leese."

_He always tells the truth_, her logical self whispered.

Her emotional self was louder. She didn't believe him. She couldn't. He was Jackson Rippner, the man who threw her life out of balance. He had done it before. He would twist his own words back around until there was no such thing as simple truth. Everything he did was for his own ends.

She could feel the heat of his breath, could almost taste the champagne he'd had. She had to close off the warring voices in her mind to think clearly. Did she really have the choice? Would he let her make it, and abide by her word? What if he didn't? What if she said…

"No."

His weight disappeared at once. Lisa opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and saw him grab his glass of champagne from the desk and down it in a single gulp. His eyes stayed upon her the whole time as she struggled to sit up.

"You meant it," she said in a voice that nearly resembled his, and he nodded sharply.

When he finally spoke, his tone was weary, defeated; he sagged against the wall as if it was all that held him upright. "So did you."

She didn't know what to say to that.

He pushed off from the wall and grabbed his suitcase. "Goodnight, Lisa," he said, forcing an ironic twist to his lips.

She understood how he felt. It seemed that every night would end like this, with the two of them gasping for air, both wanting something that seemed somehow just not right, not yet, not now. It made her body ache and even her mind was nearly ready to allow it.

But not tonight. "Goodnight, Jackson," she replied, turning to her other side. There was silence for a while, as he stayed where he was, watching her, then she heard the door to the other room open and close with a soft click.

Lisa surreptitiously checked over her shoulder. She was alone in the room.

Too tired to change, she turned out the light and crawled under the blanket. When sleep finally did come, her dreams were full of caresses that never quite made contact, kisses that almost and never were.

Then even those dreams left, and she slept deeply.

.-.-.-.-.


	15. On My Honor

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I just about fell over when I found out Carl Ellsworth wrote for Cleopatra 2525. :heart: I loved that show, I really did. The preceding statement has nothing to do with my fic or the disclaimer, but it needed to be said. XD**

.-.-.-.-.

Breakfast was a hasty affair at six in the morning, the Continental-style fare eaten in strained silence. After enduring five minutes of his employers' distraction, Frank impatiently grabbed a croissant and went down to get the car, leaving Lisa and Jackson alone in the room to gather their things. Lisa considered taking a quick shower, but settled for freshening up and changing out of her rumpled clothes. Clean khakis and comfortable loafers helped brighten her appearance, if not her mood. Once she'd managed to tame her wild hair into a loose half-braid, she emerged to find Jackson waiting by the door, bags in hand. He failed to meet her eyes.

Not that she could meet his. She found herself embarrassed and confused by turns, with a moment or two of wondering if she'd done the right thing by pushing him away.

Of course she had. Hadn't she?

Lisa checked them out of the inn, handing her key to a yawning Diana. She felt a pang of sympathy for the poor girl who had pulled the night shift and was obviously ready to go home. Lisa had had her share of those—it was one thing she never, ever missed about her old job.

The dark, overcooked aroma of nearby coffee made Lisa's mouth water. She desperately wanted a cup to go, but Jackson was already holding the door open. With one last longing look at the pot, she followed him to the car.

Everything outside was blue and grey and quiet. There was still dew on the grass, on the street, on the old lamp-post in front of the inn and on the leaves of the magnolia bushes. Even the sounds of the car doors opening and closing were muffled. No one spoke, whether they were tired or simply had nothing to say, and Lisa buckled her belt with a soft sigh.

"We'll stop later," Jackson said, his voice subdued as though he, too, noticed how peaceful the world was and wanted to keep it that way. Lisa tilted her head in question, and he went on. "Once we've gone over the border to North Carolina, we'll get coffee." He hesitated, then, "You looked like you wanted some."

"I did," she replied somewhat warily.

He nodded, satisfied, and looked out his window.

.-.-.-.-.

By the time the Audi pulled onto the highway, the sun had burned away the clouds that muted its pale light. The mood in the car had turned professional, polite. Frank no longer bantered with either of them, and Jackson kept his eyes on the scenery. Lisa rested her chin on her hand. She looked out her own window but saw nothing; her attention had turned inward. Every mile that passed brought them closer and closer to Annapolis, closer to the death of a man she wasn't entirely sure deserved to die.

Perhaps it would have been easier if she didn't know the intended victim. Something seemed off about this whole thing to begin with, something above and beyond the unease she felt about helping Jackson plan someone else's assassination.

She hadn't helped him, though, really. Why was she here, anyway? He hadn't used her for information, hadn't tried to coerce her into pulling the trigger, hadn't even asked her if she knew when Michael Rowe and Don Connolly would be available. All she'd been so far was…what? A passenger? A companion? A pawn?

Lisa felt like she'd been swept along by the tide that was Jackson Rippner. All she could do at this point was exactly what she'd been doing all along: sit on her side of the car and watch the highway go by until she was actually needed.

.-.-.-.-.

It should have been a five-and-a-half hour drive to Fredericksburg, but with Frank's driving, they pulled up in front of the unassuming coffeeshop in four. The place was small, paneled in dark wood, populated only by the barista and a few locals. No one around looked anything like what Lisa expected Jackson's contact to be. Jackson, too, seemed a little uneasy as he leaned over to her side and peered out her window.

He pursed his lips as he thought, concentrating on the faces that passed by. At last, he muttered, "Wait here," and opened his door.

"Jackso—"

"Stay with Frank," he ordered, ducking his head down to pin her with a sharp stare. "I'll be right back."

She felt far out of her depth, but held his gaze for a long moment. "Fine," she said at length. He watched her for a few seconds more as if he expected her to say more, then briskly he shut the door. She saw him walk around the front of the car and into the coffeeshop.

"Why am I even here?" she mused softly. She wasn't expecting an answer, but then Frank spoke up.

"He's keeping an eye on you."

"What?"

His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "He's watching out for you. He wants to make sure he knows you're all right while he does his thing."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "You'd have to ask him. I'm just the driver."

.-.-.-.-.

She was getting bored after an hour of sitting there, though the boredom was edged with fear, worry. How long should it take for Jackson to get the information he needed? What if something happened, and she and Frank weren't around to help him? What if—

The door of the coffeeshop swung open, and Jackson appeared. He was followed by a dark-haired man in a grey suit. Not black, but it was close enough to remind her of the suits that had been trying to kill them for the past few days. It made her nervous. She instinctively shrank back from the window when the man looked over at the car in curiosity. Something plucked at her memory, something about the shape of the man's jaw, or the set of his shoulders.

"Frank?" Lisa murmured, "Your windows are tinted, aren't they?"

"Naturally."

She could hear the unspoken question. "I think I know him…" She drifted off, watching Jackson talk to him. They shook hands, and Lisa saw the flash of a gold watch on the other man's wrist, the only spot of color on an otherwise colorless man.

"Lisa?"

She jumped. "Sorry." She had to shake her head to clear it. "It's just…the man Jackson is talking to—he looks familiar. But I don't know, I can't tell from here. You know?" For some reason, she didn't want the man in the suit to see her.

"Hmm." He craned his neck, but by then Jackson had already started on his way back. Frank prepared to pull away from the curb once Jackson was inside. He checked his driver's side mirror for any oncoming cars. Something made him blink, then frown, and in a voice that made Lisa's blood freeze, he said quietly, "Buckle up."

The man in the suit had disappeared in the other direction. Jackson strode to the car and got in. To Lisa, he said, "Well, that was, ah, fruitful. I have some possible opportunities. We can discuss them on our way to your place."

"Actually," Frank interrupted, "I'd appreciate it if you discuss it another time so I can concentrate now." His eyes met Jackson's in the mirror, and Jackson stiffened.

"You're joking."

Frank's only reply was to shift very suddenly into reverse, then first, pulling out of the parallel space and joining the steady stream of holiday traffic on the street. Lisa clung to the door handle and braced her arm on the front seat's headrest. Jackson fastened his own belt with alacrity and flung the laptop bag's strap across his shoulder.

"How long have they been following us?" he demanded. Lisa risked a glance backward to see a pair of black SUVs pulling into traffic in a similar manner behind them.

"They just showed up." Frank's voice was tight, his words terse. His gaze never wavered from the road ahead. Fredericksburg was barely more than a large town with few chances to hide, so they were reduced to simply outpacing their pursuers. The holiday shoppers made it difficult to gain much headway, though Frank wove in and out of spaces Lisa would have sworn were impossibly too tight for the Audi to fit. In this way, he got some precious distance between them, though it was still not enough to lose them.

"Guys—" Lisa saw one of the SUVs' passenger-side windows lower and a black metallic object was pointed at them. "I think one has a—"

Jackson pushed her head down as the now-familiar clatter of bullets showered the back window. The glass held despite some scratches; Lisa briefly wondered at the idea that she was forever riding in bulletproof cars. "Shit, Frank, get us out of here!"

"Working on it." He made as if to take the first turn before the highway, but immediately veered back onto the main road, narrowly missing a pedestrian with a small child that had been crossing the street he'd tried to turn down. From somewhere behind them a police siren began to wail, and both men swore in unison.

They were only a mile or so from the highway; Lisa could see it arcing over the road they were on even from where she sat. Frank's jaw twitched, his eyes catching every tiny detail around the car, planning alternate routes (of which there were none) and making sure townsfolk didn't get caught up in the chase. He swerved to avoid a bicyclist. "Both of you, get ready to get out."

"What?" Lisa's head snapped up so fast it hurt. "But—"

Jackson's hand on her arm made her still. "You're going to run decoy?"

"Yeah." Frank's glance flickered back to them and then to the road. "We have a shot coming up, but you gotta be ready. It'll look like I'm turning around, but I'll double back to the highway by a different route. You guys make sure you have what you need."

Jackson looked at Lisa, who realized he was waiting for her response. She nodded. In the movement of the car, it was difficult to tell, but she could have sworn he smiled a little. He unsnapped his seatbelt and Lisa did the same. Jackson turned to Frank. "We're ready."

"Good."

There was no warning, just a swift sharp turn like a roller coaster car. Lisa was flung against Jackson, who, instead of helping her sit up, pulled her closer. She began to struggle automatically, but then the car stopped and threw them around, and then Jackson's door was open, and they were tumbling to the pavement together. Jackson kicked the door shut and rolled back just in time to avoid being crushed by the retreating Audi.

They both took a gasping breath, then Jackson was on his feet. "Come on!" He hauled her up by her arm, already heading toward a door in the wall. They were in a small loading area between two stores, hidden from the street by the proximity of the two brick buildings. Lisa didn't have time to examine her surroundings, however, for Jackson yanked the miraculously unlocked door open and pushed her through, then followed. The storeroom was dark inside, unlit except for high, dirty windows that let in some of the day.

Lisa and Jackson paused just inside the door, panting, eyes adjusting to the darkness. They were at the top of a concrete landing surrounded by a metal pipe rail. It seemed to be a hardware shop's storeroom, stacked with boxes and cans of paint. A short flight of steps led to the floor.

The squeal of tires outside galvanized them both into action. They ran down the stairs and deeper into the room, hugging the boxes and keeping to the shadows. Behind them, in the alley, they heard the sound of doors slamming shut and shouted orders as the vehicle turned to follow Frank's trail.

"Look around for them," came the muffled voice of one man. "Check everywhere!"

Jackson pulled Lisa back against him, deeper into the darkness. She felt a concrete block wall scrape against her shoulder, then Jackson's fingers covered her lips.

"Don't move," he breathed into her ear. He gently moved around her, positioned himself between her and the open room like a shield.

There was a faint flare of bluish light from outside when the door opened slowly, cautiously. Hard-soled shoes sounded on the stairs, first one set and then another, and then the door closed once more. The beams of two flashlights began to sweep through the darkened room, methodically moving toward their hiding place.

Lisa fought the panic that rose in her chest as the sounds and the lights grew closer. She couldn't see anything save the silhouettes of boxes and shelves near the windows; even Jackson was nothing more than a warm solid presence between her and the men hunting them, pressing her backward. She could smell the asphalt on them both, the papery, dusty boxes, the cold tang of the .45, the faint scent of hotel soap that Jackson had used that morning. He was steady, sure, and she tried to draw upon that feeling in order to keep herself together.

Whoever the men in suits were, they knew how to be efficient. They said nothing to each other, just swept the flashlights down each row of boxes, one after another after another, always moving forward. They would discover Jackson and Lisa in no time, and only Jackson was armed. If the cleanup crew wanted them dead, the situation was definitely in the favor of the crew at this moment.

All at once, another door opened on the opposite side of the room. The center bank of lights blazed to life. Several pairs of booted feet tramped down the stairs—they must have been people from the store itself, for a deep Virginia drawl called out, "What in hell is goin' on here?"

There was the sound of scuffling, then their pursuers retreated, running up the stairs they'd come in. The store workers shouted after them, three burly men in jeans and flannel running down the main aisle of the boxes to chase the black suits out.

Thankfully, Lisa and Jackson were still cloaked in shadow, so when the workers eventually came back, grumbling to each other about thieves, no one saw them. One of the men made a cursory inspection of the storeroom, barely even looking in the direction of the couple in hiding before heading back up the other stairs to the store again. The lights went out once more, and the door slammed shut.

Then, and only then, did Jackson let out a deep breath. He turned to check on Lisa and spoke in a hushed voice. "Still in one piece?"

She nodded. "You?"

"I will be very upset if my suit is ruined." He sounded like he was only half-joking. "Didn't expect to be saved by an angry stockboy, though."

"So what now?" She felt her own breathing return to normal, bit by bit. Her heart still thundered, though it, too, was calming. "What about Frank?"

He leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. When she remained standing, he patted the ground beside him. "We wait. It's unlikely that we'll see Frank again, not for a long time. Don't worry, he'll be all right—better now that we're not slowing him down. He'll lead the cars in another direction as long as he can, and by the time they catch up with him or he loses them, we'll be long gone."

"We will, huh?" Lisa joined him on the floor. Her hand stung from being scraped when they fell out of the car, and her whole right shoulder ached from colliding with the pavement. "What's the plan, then? We're so close to Annapolis."

Jackson set the laptop bag between them and fished around in one of the pockets, producing a candy bar that had apparently borne the brunt of the impact. He unwrapped it and broke it in half, handing a piece to her. "We wait for the shops to close, then we wait for the town to go to sleep, and then we leave. I'll call us a cab once we're in a different spot, get out of town, and drop you off at your place."

"And then?"

"Then," he said, his mouth full of chocolate and peanuts, "I act on the information my contact gave me regarding Connolly's schedule. He's going to be—"

"Wait, you're still going to trust that guy?" She couldn't believe it. "After what just happened?"

"Why not?"

"Hello, the suit?" He gave her an amused look that she read even in the poor light. "Fine, so his was grey, and around here, that could mean anything. But still. There's something wrong with the picture, and he's a big part of the problem."

He shook his head. "We don't have much choice. I take what information I can get—besides, if nothing else, you can confirm it based on what you know about the D.C. social calendar. The info is good."

"I'm telling you, Jackson. That guy you were talking to—I know him from somewhere. I've seen him before."

"Of course you have." He leaned his head back against the cool concrete. "He's an infiltrator, Leese. They're everywhere; how else do you think we get accurate intelligence? You've probably seen him at a party or in the halls of one of the State buildings. People like him make a career out of blending in, fitting in like everyone else in places where no one can possibly know every person who works there."

Lisa pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "I guess so. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence. You know?"

"Let me handle it anyway. I've dealt with this guy for a long time, and I know what I'm doing. Just trust me, okay?"

She looked at him, found the faint gleam of his eye in the fading, filtered daylight. It was such an offhand question, but it struck her that she had to choose one way or another eventually. Did she trust him? Could she?

He was watching her again, his easy manner changing to a more sober one as he waited for the answer.

"I trust you," she said at last, shakily. Then, stronger, "I trust you. I have to."

His sigh was colored by a smile which she could not see but could hear, and he put his arms behind his head. "Then get comfortable. We have a long time to wait."

.-.-.-.-.

**_AN: …holy crap, guys. I told my husband when I first started writing this fic that I hoped a C2 or two would pick it up. I got my wish when two of the four C2s in this fandom added me, and I was happy. On Saturday, though, two more added me, and neither one is fandom-specific. I was bowled over, I kid you not. Thank you all so much for reading, and major thanks to the two new C2s who added me. I don't know what else to say, except to my readers: please do check out those communities. You'll find some fantastic work from all fandoms. I already faved two authors and several stories that I found through them. Thanks again! –CG_**

_**AN2: Sorry, btw, about the time between updates. I don't post a schedule because my actual schedule changes so much during the week. I work for my dad at odd times, and my art updates and original projects have to take precedence over the fic. Just so y'all know that I'm not abandoning this or anything…I'm in it for the long haul. :) –CG**_


	16. Waiting for Darkness to Fall

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. **

.-.-.-.-.

The sounds above them were constant: floors creaking under the weight of booted feet and leather shoes, muffled voices, laughter, questions, and at one point a crash as something fell, and more laughter. It seemed that the main door of the shop had a bell, which dinged every time someone went in or out. No one else came downstairs.

The other door jiggled once, as though someone in the alley was trying to get in, but then all was still. Jackson murmured to Lisa that he was certain they had only been pursued earlier to cover all options, not that their hunters actually believed he and she had escaped into the basement. Frank's driving was legendary in underworld circles, and it was most likely that they bought his feint and still chased him even now. Lisa hoped he was right.

While they waited, Jackson opened his laptop and, hunching over the screen in case they were disturbed, made notes about his meeting with his contact, the man Lisa had recognized. She leaned over, curious, and he glanced up at her. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to learn what's going on."

He gave her a weary look. "Leese..."

"Don't tell me, you'll let me know when I need to know, right?" She sat back against a box, irritated.

"Just give me time to collect my thoughts and I'll share." At her skeptical brow, his mouth quirked up. "I promise."

She sighed but returned the smile. "I'm holding you to it."

At five thirty, traffic upstairs slowed, and at six, a single pair of footsteps strode across to the front door, which they heard open and close with a merry jingle, and then all was silent. Lisa watched Jackson, who was still typing away, then tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey."

He started, then blinked and checked the time. "Sorry." He listened, watched the ceiling. "Everyone's gone?"

"Seems that way." She stretched and readjusted her legs in a different position under her. "So now what?"

"We wait a while longer, 'til after dark. I don't feel like surprising the janitor or something, and there'll be too much traffic on the street for us to leave quietly. Once we're out of here, I'll call a cab to pick us up a couple blocks away and have them take us the rest of the way to your place."

Lisa nodded, yawning. "Okay, then." She pointed at the laptop. "So explain?"

He leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking. "So we have a couple of options. Some involve you, some don't. I'd rather not involve you."

"How chivalrous," she said dryly.

"Chivalry has nothing to do with it," came his equally dry retort, "You're just not a killer, nor are you professional in the sense that I am. I don't want you in the way when the bullets start to fly."

"Especially if you're as bad a shot as you claim to be," she sent back.

He looked surprised, eyes focusing on nothing as he was wont to do when he was remembering something, then they met hers again with a smile. "Ahh, that's right. I told you that back when we met." He grinned almost boyishly. "I've gotten a little better since then. You know, work on your weaknesses and all that."

"I wondered why you seemed so confident with your gun the other day." Had it really only been a few days ago? This adventure she was on seemed to have lasted months. She let her head rest against the box at her back. "So anyway…"

"So anyway. My contact gave me a very good date and a few not-so-good ones. My best bet is to hit Connolly at Senator Hayne's Thanksgiving Ball. Both candidates will be there, and Connolly is at the top of the guest list."

She felt a little faint. "That's a terrible choice! There will be too many people around!" She imagined the panic, the terror that would spread like wildfire through hundreds of people who were completely unprepared for anything but an elegant holiday party. "Not to mention the security that will be there—two Presidential candidates in one room? It'll be near impossible."

"Security doesn't concern me," he scoffed. "Nor does the thought of 'too many people'. If nothing else, it'll help me. More people around means more cover, and more opportunity to get lost in the crowd."

"So, what, you walk in wearing a tuxedo, shoot Connolly, and leave like you're James Bond?"

"Pretty much." His voice was confident, but he rubbed at his eyes as though his head hurt. "Of course, it could all go to shit if I don't get everything lined up just right. It's been a long time since I had to do a hit myself."

For some reason, Lisa was worried, though she wasn't sure what about. She shook her head. "I don't like it. I don't like any of it, not since moment one when you told me you had to kill Michael Connolly, not since people tried to blow us up, not since Mr. White, and certainly not since you talked to your contact. Something is way off here."

"So tell me," he said, snapping the laptop shut, "Tell me what bothers you. Aside from your unfortunate possession of moral inflexibility."

"I'll tell you what bothers me," she bristled. "It bothers me that all of this hinges on the idea that if you kill one man, it will save your life—"

"Don't forget it saves your family's lives," he interjected, but she ignored him.

"—but how do we even know this is the case? You lost your job after being hospitalized, and you were on your own for three years before this came up. Mr. White kidnapped us so he could tell you _to your face_ that he couldn't help you on this one, and that killing Connolly wouldn't make things okay between you two. So he's not the one behind the information, and though I don't like him, I do trust him after meeting him, on some level."

"Things work differently in my world, Leese," he said darkly. "Just because Mr. White said that _doesn't_ mean my info is incorrect."

"But how do you know if it is? Who told you, Jackson? How did you find out that Connolly was being targeted by the FBI? How did you come to the conclusion that killing him before they get their hands on whatever he knows about your organization will keep us alive? How do you know you're not just being set up?"

"I don't!" He nearly shouted, froze for a moment, listening, then repeated more softly, "I don't. I don't know, and it is killing me, because I work in information, in cause and effect and plan A, plan B, all the way through plan Z. But I have only this little bit to go on, and one of the things that made me one of the best managers out there was my ability to take minimal resources and create a viable plan out of them. My instincts told me that this is the best solution, and so I'm going with it."

"Then why am I here?"

"What?" He had been pacing in the narrow aisle between the boxes, but her question made him stop and half-turn to face her.

Lisa swallowed. "Why did you seek me out? I've told you that this goes against all of my instincts and you're not listening to me, so it wasn't my counsel you wanted. Why am I here?"

He stared at her, and yet again she watched the parade of emotions that shoved his mask aside as he thought of his answer. In the end, however, he made a dismissive noise and turned away once more.

She was on her feet before he could take another step. "Don't. You. Dare." She grabbed his arm, whirled him so he had to look at her. "You can stop treating me like a fucking passenger right now."

Part of her almost wished she hadn't moved; the same expression that had been on his face last night at the Inn was there now. He saw her notice, and with a step he'd backed her against the wall of boxes. Lisa couldn't push against them too much for fear of toppling them, and she knew he knew it.

"What was that, Leese?" He asked softly, tilting his head to the side as if asking an honest question. "You sound like you didn't understand something. I thought it was pretty clear why I brought you along." Nothing held her there but the closeness of his body; his arms hung at his sides, but still she couldn't move.

Damn her body for reacting, damn the traitorous way her heart beat faster and made her breath come harder. She was so tired of behaving like this around him, especially when he knew how much of a diversion it was for her. She found her original thought in her mind, closed a mental fist around it and dragged it back, closing her eyes to keep from looking into his.

"Never mind," she said, measuring her words, breath catching when she felt him lean in, "It's okay. I understand."

"Do you?"

"Jackson." She felt him pull back, and finally she opened her eyes, let the threat behind her words shine through them. "Do that again, even joking with me, and I will break your nose."

That had obviously not been the response he had expected, for his delicate brows rose and his mouth opened and closed a few times. The expression turned from surprise to interested speculation. Funny how she knew that he was thinking on his feet, as he had when they first met. "You know what, I believe you would."

"Good." With a slight shove, she put distance between them again. "I'd hate to ruin your pretty face."

"Aha, so you do think I'm hot."

Lisa snorted. "Only until you open your mouth."

"I'm hurt." His tone said otherwise, and the glow from the laptop highlighted his smirk when he opened it again. "Now, let's see…"

Within a few minutes, Jackson was absorbed once more into his plans and plots. He seemed to have forgotten that Lisa was even there. She sighed and sat back against the box again, beside him, only half watching what was happening on the screen. She lazily noticed that he'd set it up so he had an Internet window open on one half, then the other half was taken up by a text document and some kind of gauge that fluctuated. Whenever it rose past a certain point, it turned orange and then red; whenever it turned red, Jackson would pause and watch it, then relax when it went back down.

"What is that?" she asked, scooting forward.

He seemed surprised she was still there, but recovered and turned back to the screen. "It tells me what monitoring devices are active in the area. It changes because newer cars passing by can affect the readings."

"Only newer cars?"

His eyes looked almost colorless in the thin light. "They only recently started adding a monitoring chip to cars manufactured in the USA. Imported cars will start getting them in the next year or so. All those handy GPS trackers and OnStar systems and 'smart cars' that tell your dealer when they need oil changes." At her expression, he gave her a mirthless smile. "You didn't think the government would pass up a chance at keeping tabs on people, did you?"

"You know what, Jackson?" she said, feeling sick, "Your world is a creepy place."

"It's just the real world, Leese." He sighed and sat back as well, shoulder to shoulder with her. "You can't wander around out there forever, just thinking everything is beautiful and happy. No one is nice all the time, no one is completely selfless."

"Not everyone is evil," she countered, and he held up a cautionary hand.

"I didn't say everyone is evil. I said that no one is completely perfect. I have no illusions about anything; I understand that there are a lot of people out there who want to make the world a better place or end hunger or something. I also know that there are even more people who don't give a shit what anyone else thinks. Most people want to get ahead, no matter what. They step on the ones around them because they don't see past the boundaries of their own families. A lot don't see past their own hides."

"So what then? What's your ray of hope? Why bother getting out of bed if you're only going to get stepped on?"

His head swiveled to grin at her, his chin in the air and his hair mussed by the wall. "I never said I was the one getting stepped on. That would be my little ray of hope, as you so quaintly put it."

"Ugh. You know what, I don't want to have this conversation anymore." She looked away, troubled, only to snap back around when she felt his hand on hers. The angry warning that sprang to her lips died before she could voice it; he was completely serious.

The shifting glow of the computer hit the planes of his face and made deeper shadows where they already tended to fall. "Nothing is going to happen to you," he said, a bit awkwardly. His brows drew together into a fine, wide v, as though he hadn't expected to say quite those words. "I mean—"

"It's okay." Lisa shook her head, pulled her hand out from under his, instantly felt the loss of warmth when she did. "I'm not from your world, Jackson. I can't ever understand how you got to be the way you are. I won't even try to imagine what you see on a daily basis. And I don't want to know. The glimpses I've gotten so far don't really make me eager to see more." She clasped her hands together under her knees.

He said nothing more, but she felt his eyes on her still. At last she looked back at him.

"I mean it," he said as if he hadn't been interrupted. "I brought you along, got you involved in this. I'll make sure you make it out unscathed—well," he amended with another of his dry smiles, "as unscathed as I can manage."

She shouldn't have felt comforted by that, but she was. "I'm holding you to that, you know."

Jackson laughed. "I'll never lie to you."

The funny thing was, Lisa believed him.

.-.-.-.-.


	17. Trifle Not With Keefe

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye.**

.-.-.-.-.

"Oww!"

"Shh!"

"I swear, Jackson, if you tell me to 'shh' one more time—"

"SHH!"

"What did I—"

Lisa's mouth was suddenly covered by a hand that wasn't hers. Jackson's face loomed large in front of her, softly backlit by the in-store security lights. "Shh, _please?_" he entreated her in what was barely a whisper, "You can talk all you want when you get outside. 'Til then…" He motioned to the corners of the store, where she could make out the tiny blink of a camera light. Once he knew she'd seen the danger, Jackson nodded, satisfied. "Ready? Okay, then."

He turned on his heel and continued making his way to the door. He had been fairly certain that the security system wasn't too difficult to bypass, but he wasn't taking any chances, not now that they were so close to Annapolis. Lisa limped slightly after him, rubbing the thigh she'd bruised against a portable chop saw table display.

Here in the dark, the hardware store managed to be both eerie and comforting at the same time. This wasn't some big chain warehouse; this was the kind of place that had probably been open since the turn of the last century, with wooden floorboards polished by four or five generations of feet walking across it. She and Jackson had emerged from the basement to find the main floor looked pretty much exactly as they'd pictured it after hours of hearing people walk around above them.

Now Jackson moved ahead of her, studying the door for any kind of alarm. An hour ago, he'd hacked into the remarkably high-tech security system to create a loop that wouldn't be detected by the company who monitored it. All they had to do was get out the door and into the street. Jackson had cautioned her about just blithely walking out, however; they had no idea if a bell or siren would sound if the door was opened before the security system was properly turned off.

There was only one way to find out. "Here goes," Jackson murmured, "Get ready to run if you have to."

Lisa clutched the laptop bag. She subconsciously moved her feet to a sprinting position, one of the odd holdovers from her high school sports days. She shifted her weight, preparing to bolt. Jackson glanced at her, then put out a hand and turned the knob.

Nothing.

They both let out a breath neither of them realized they'd been holding. He grinned and pulled the door open just enough to let them through, not enough to make the bell jingle. First Lisa, then Jackson squeezed past, and he shut the door behind him.

They were out in the street, alone in the dark. Lisa filled her lungs with the cold night air, reveled in the fresh crisp scent of November after those long cramped hours in the basement. She felt invigorated, refreshed, and she wanted to get moving right that moment. Ten hours spent doing nothing had made her restless.

Jackson must have noticed this, for he smiled again and took her arm. "Come on," he murmured, pulling her to the right. "Let's get some distance between us and the store before I call a cab."

"I'm starving," she replied, following. "Whatever we do, I want to stop at McDonald's or something."

He made a face. They might have been a couple out for a late-night walk, except that they wore no coats and they kept looking around, alert. "I can't believe you eat that crap."

"There's nothing wrong with it once in a while." They passed storefront after storefront, street light after street light in their quest to get away from the store.

"Do you have any idea how many cows they kill for those crappy burgers?"

Lisa stopped walking. "You did not just say that."

"What?" He paused and glanced around. "Leese, could you maybe talk and walk?"

She trotted after him but continued to marvel. "I can't believe you said that. Jackson, do you have any idea how very funny it is that you can arrange assassinations and manage coups without a care, but you have issues with people killing cows for food?"

He didn't look at her. "The cows are innocent."

It was just too much. Lisa began to laugh, leaning on buildings for support. If there was a bit of a hysterical edge to it, neither of them said anything. When it became obvious to him that they weren't going much farther, Jackson pulled out his cell and dialed for a cab.

"You just be happy my battery still works," he grumbled. Lisa merely giggled in response.

.-.-.-.-.

After two days of Frank's driving, it was almost uncivilized to sit in the back of a yellow cab with the laptop bag tucked between them. Lisa had gotten over her fit of laughter but still felt a bit giddy. Jackson merely rolled his eyes and told her to eat her 'dead cow' and shut up. She made short work of her value meal, even licked the salt off her fingertips at the end. It felt so good to eat something, even if it was mostly grease and the burger tasted like cardboard.

Jackson had ordered a salad that came in a clear plastic container with a sad little packet of dressing tossed on top. He had treated in much the same way Lisa had her own meal, with the ravenous hunger of someone who hadn't eaten anything but half a candy bar and a cup of coffee since yesterday. It was gone before she could ask for the wan cherry tomato. He now tapped the plastic fork (also licked clean) against his teeth as he looked blankly out the window into the passing highway trees.

At length, he looked thoughtfully in her direction. "I'm going to get out here. You are going on to your house."

"When will we meet up again?"

He shook his head. "We won't."

Lisa stared at him. The anger, suppressed for days, suddenly flared up inside her. "What."

"I decided I didn't want you involved," he went on as if he didn't see the darkening of her brow. "I don't want you getting caught in the middle anymore."

"Great, Jack, just great," she snapped. "I can't believe this. You tell me this fifteen minutes before we arrive at my house? Nuh-uh. You're not going to just kick me out of the car and say 'so long'. We're supposed to be in this together, remember?"

"Yeah, well," he tapped on the plexiglas divider, signalling for the driver to pull over, "I changed my mind after our last little adventure. Just stay home until it's over. You shouldn't be associated with me and what I have to do."

"Of all the stupid, inane, thick-skulled—"

He ignored her litany of insults and calmly handed money over to the cabbie, enough to pay for their trip so far and the remaining few miles to her house. The speed with which he gave her address without hesitation told Lisa that he'd been watching her for a long time even here in Maryland. When he began to climb out of the car, hooking his arm through the bag strap, Lisa caught the bag itself and clung to it to keep him there. "Jackson, don't be an idiot."

Jackson ducked down so he could speak softly to her. His fingers caught her chin, held her still so he could speak into her ear. "That's exactly what I'm trying to avoid," he murmured, "I told you I didn't want you to get hurt, and I mean that. Let me take care of this on my own. My way."

She tried not to shiver as she looked over at him. "And that's it, then. I was useless."

A brief smile flickered across his mouth. "I wouldn't call you useless, no. Go home, Leese. I'll call you when it's over."

With that, he pulled back, taking the bag with him. The door closed, its dingy white interior panel framing his face through the window. The driver pulled away from the curb, and soon they were too far down the street for Lisa to see him anymore. She made a frustrated noise and faced forward.

What was she supposed to do now? All her energy had been spent just trying to get to Annapolis for…what? Maybe Jackson was right. Maybe there wasn't anything she could do; she'd just end up getting in someone's way.

She couldn't think like that. She had to have a purpose. She had come this far, all these miles and all those nearly missed escapes to find out who had killed her father, who hunted her and the rest of her family. Instead of being able to do something about it, though, here she was, riding alone in a paid cab to her own doorstep, as if the entire last couple of weeks hadn't happened at all. She was angry and disappointed and something else she couldn't name.

They were at her townhouse in no time. Lisa climbed carefully out of the car, painfully aware that she had no luggage or anything beyond her ID and house key in her small wallet. Even her purse was still in Frank's car. A bath sounded heavenly to her at that moment, a nice long, warm bath with bubbles and soft music to soothe her aching head. That, and something filling to eat.

As she went up the stairs, something struck her as slightly…_off _about the place. Lisa thought of Jackson's obsession with checking rooms, and suddenly it didn't seem so paranoid of him. Experience had shown her that his attention paid off; perhaps he had something. She quietly began to look in every corner of her house.

The foyer, the kitchen, the office were empty, but the living room revealed six men in grey suits and one man in khakis and a blue button-down shirt. He was sitting comfortably in the room, petting her cat, who had hopped up on the arm of the chair. Charles Keefe looked quite happy to see her. "Lisa, you're later than we expected you. Still all in one piece?"

She met his eyes, then looked at each of the men in the room. "I," she announced, "am going to take a bath."

Keefe frowned. "We need to talk."

"I don't care." She felt her hands clench and she forced them to relax. "I have been shot at, chased in cars, thrown out of cars, nearly blown up—twice—kidnapped, harrassed, shot at more, and on top of all this, my father is dead from something other than natural causes. You. Can. Wait."

He studied her for a minute or two, but nodded in the end. "Go on. We'll be here when you come down."

.-.-.-.-.

Perhaps it was childish of her; perhaps it was just her vain hope that they'd get bored and leave. Lisa took two hours to bathe and put on fresh clothes. She took her time, soaked in the tub and let the bubbles die down around her more than once. She refilled the tub twice.

Finally, though, she couldn't justify any more dawdling. She sighed, still not feeling quite right, still angry at Jackson for leaving (which bothered her on too many levels to even start to consider), and chose a pair of worn jeans to wear with a sweater and her fluffy slippers. If she was going to talk to Charles Keefe about what she thought he wanted to talk about, she'd be damn comfortable while they talked.

He was still waiting for her, though the cat had since disappeared to play elsewhere. When she reappeared in the living room, Keefe put down the magazine he was reading and focused all his attention on her. "Feeling better?"

"You could say that." Lisa felt surly, out-of-sorts. "Why are you here?"

Keefe sat back and crossed his ankles. "We were hoping to talk with your traveling companions. Reports had you crossing several state borders in the company of someone whose face appears on Federal Wanted posters, in a car driven by another person who interested the CIA and Florida State Police. Oh, and your driver came up in the French database, too, and he's listed as 'questionable' status in Monaco."

"I don't know anything about Mr. Martin except that he was a driver Jackson knew." She had already decided not to pretend she hadn't been traveling with Jackson; why lie, when she needed Keefe's help? And how else could she explain the details of what Jackson had planned? She didn't want to betray him on one hand, but still…she couldn't live with herself if she didn't at least try to prevent Connolly's untimely death.

Her boss kept his eyes on her, though he spoke amiably. "You have no idea how many people would like to speak with Mr. Rippner and Mr. Martin. I also hear that you were taken from your father's home, unconscious, only to return a day later in seemingly good health. An office building was destroyed by a bomb planted in two locations in the structure, and later the MPD's Bomb Squad received a call—in your voice—to investigate a possible explosive under the hood of a BMW 355i located in your father's driveway." He raised a brow. "You may be interested to know that they disarmed the bomb. The car has since been impounded."

"I'm sure Jackson will be thrilled to bits."

"You're taking this rather well."

Lisa sighed. "I already told you what I've been going through. I was going to contact you when I got in."

"Really."

The calm disbelief was getting to her; she gripped the cushion of the couch where she sat. She glowered at him and decided it was time to throw caution to the wind. "You know me better than that, Charles," she said evenly, using his first name. "Stop playing the Homeland Security agent and start thinking about what I've proven to you in the last few years."

Keefe smiled then. He'd been testing her, and she'd passed by virtue of her straightforward irritation. "I know, Lisa." The tension evaporated, just like that, and he want on. "Through the intelligence we've gathered, I know you've been through quite the ordeal. We have an investigative team working on the people who were chasing you, as well as trying to tail Mr. Rippner before he does some irreparable damage."

At last, someone she could talk to. "That's actually the problem," she said, sitting forward. He mirrored her pose with an interested expression. Lisa launched into the full story. She told him nearly everything—the personal and intimate details of her dealings with Jackson were glossed over—and finished with, "I think he's going to try to use the Thanskgiving Ball as his cover. You can't let him do this; but…" She trailed off when she realized what she had been about to say.

"But…?" Prompted Keefe.

Lisa shook herself and looked away. "I don't want him to be hurt."

"Connolly? Well of course."

"No," she said, and met his eyes. "Jackson."

One of the normally emotionless agents coughed as if her words made him choke. Keefe glanced at the man in annoyance, then back at Lisa in bemusement. He regarded her, thinking, before he spoke in a careful voice. "You want us to be careful about not hurting Jackson Rippner."

What was she thinking? Even she didn't know. Head down again, she traced the cut velvet pattern on one of her throw pillows. "Yes." She felt as if she needed to explain herself. "Charles, something is clearly wrong with this situation. I feel it in my gut. I think Jackson is being used, but I don't know by whom or why. I just have this bad feeling like we've been herded along. Why didn't the bombs kill us? Why didn't they use armor piercing rounds on the cars they had to know were bulletproof? Why were they so easily thrown off our trail in Fredericksburg?" She shook her head. "I don't like any of it. Jackson is convinced he's on the right path, but I don't believe that."

"Hmm." Keefe steepled his fingers and mulled over her request. Then, surprising her, he made a thoughtful noise. "All right, how about this—why don't we just leave him alone for now? We will just have to wait to see what's going to happen."

Her head snapped up. "Really?"

He nodded. "This is an interesting situation. I have been looking forward to talking with Mr. Rippner for some time; we had been planning to apprehend him when we could, but this plan of his to use the Ball as his chance to assassinate my political rival's campaign manager could be turned to our advantage." At her horrified expression, he waved a hand. "No, no, Lisa, don't misunderstand. I am going to warn Michael Rowe immediately; what I mean is that maybe we can flush out the 'cleanup crew' you told me about."

Where did this feeling of relief come from? Lisa wasn't sure, but she found herself thanking her boss. "What will you do if—when—you catch him?"

Keefe smiled. "First off, he and I are going to have a nice, long, friendly chat. And then, I'm probably going to punch him in the face for threatening my family. And then…" He shrugged. "We'll see."

"It can't be that easy."

"It probably won't be," he said heavily. "But I have faith in you." He fixed her with the serious, piercing gaze that had become his signature since his induction as Deputy Director of Homeland Security four years ago. "Don't let me down, Lisa. A lot is riding on your word."

She met that gaze, though it took more strength than she expected. "I know. I won't."

He propped his chin on his hand, seemingly distracted. Lisa recognized that look; he was deep in thought. It was something he did when faced with an important dilemma. She settled into the couch and waited for him to speak again. When he did, however, she didn't expect what he said. "Lisa, I want you to attend the Ball with my wife and me."

"What?" She half-rose. "But—"

He motioned for her to sit back down. "Amanda will take care of getting you something to wear, so don't worry about that. I want you there, no matter what Rippner said. If this all goes down the way you think it will, I have the feeling you'll be the only way we can get to him."

She thought about Jackson's warning, his instructions to stay put. She thought about how angry she had been to be left behind after all this, and that was enough to make her square her shoulders in defiance of his orders. "All right," she said, "I'll go."

"Good," Keefe said, pleased, and he stood. "I'll have Amanda call you tomorrow. Don't get up," he insisted, "We'll show ourselves out."

Lisa smiled at him. "Charles?"

"Yes?" he paused in the doorway.

"Next time you decide to wait for me, can you have someone put on a pot of coffee or something?"

Keefe laughed. "Sure, I'll remember that in the future." He waved a hand. "See you at the Ball."

The agents filed out around him, and soon Lisa was completely, blissfully, totally alone. She stayed where she was for a few minutes, absorbing everything, until something made her grumble in annoyance. Then the incongruity of it all, the silliness, made her laugh out loud.

She was finally going to a State Ball, and her beautiful new Manolos were still stuck in the trunk of Frank's car.

.-.-.-.-.


	18. The Manolo, She is Beautiful, Yes?

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye.**

.-.-.-.-.

Two days passed in a blur. Lisa spent much of the first deep in sleep while her exhausted mind forced her body to simply stop until both were properly rested. When she woke, there were forty messages on her answering machine; most of them were from before the funeral, and she cried anew at hearing the condolences from co-workers. Her mother had called seven times, most recently the day before Lisa got home, each time with an entreaty for Lisa to please call her, let her know if she could expect her daughter for Thanksgiving. Lisa hoped she could make it, though the way events played out at the Ball would likely dictate whether or not Lisa was going anywhere.

She tried hard not to think about that aspect of the upcoming party. When Amanda Keefe called her late in the afternoon on the second day, Lisa was ready to go shopping for something suitable to wear and to put the whole unpleasantness out of her head. Even then, she found herself at home the night before the ball with a dress she barely remembered choosing and a list of instructions that Amanda had left for her, mostly involving a trip to a stylist.

Lisa clipped the list to her refrigerator door to remind her about the appointment, then stood back to turn in a 360-degree circle. Her gaze took in her kitchen counter, the list, her table, the divider that separated her kitchen from the main room. How had she gotten here? Hadn't she just been on the road with Frank and Jackson? Hadn't she been in South Carolina just days ago, in Georgia, Florida? Miami. She'd been in Miami, comfortably ensconced in her luxury suite after tending to the difficult death of her father…how many days ago?

A week.

That meant Joe had been dead for less than a month. Twenty days, at most.

She bit her lip, felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She didn't belong here at this moment, getting ready for a State Ball that might or might not be Don Connolly's last, that might or might not ruin Jackson once and for all. That she might not be with her family for the holiday itself hadn't really sunk in until now. Lisa wondered if she was ever going to have just a normal life, without international assassins and death threats, bombs, and car chases. At the rate she was going, it wasn't very likely.

The take-charge part of her mind suddenly woke up. _Don't cry_, she chided herself. _Life doesn't wait for when you're 'ready' or 'prepared'. You pick yourself up and move forward._

Perhaps another time, the reminder of her long-gone grandmother might have depressed her, but at that moment, the thought was a comfort. She had lost people, and she had a personal stake in whatever was going to happen tomorrow night. Not only that, she had a responsibility to her boss and even—regardless of the cliché—her country.

Her immediate mental image of Lisa Reisert, defender of justice made her snort and roll her eyes. "Right," she said aloud. The cat looked up, disinterested. Lisa bent to scratch the fluffy beast under the chin and then straightened. She took a step toward the living room, fully intending to call her mother back.

Movement at her door made her freeze. A hulking shape stood just past the thin cotton privacy curtain on the door's window; someone taller and broader than she, outside on the porch. How long had he been there? She stepped back at once and grabbed a knife. The doorbell rang then, its cheery chime sounding almost eerie.

Lisa shuffled forward a bit, just enough to glance around the corner again to see what the intruder was doing. He moved, the shadow's arm going toward the latch. She tensed, waiting for him to try to sneak into the house. He must have thought she was still out, and he'd lie in wait for her to return. Her fingers fanned and repositioned themselves on the handle of the knife. She was ready.

Instead, however, the doorbell only sounded once more. What kind of assassin was he?

No kind, apparently. The form shrugged, then disappeared. Lisa heard the 'thunk' of a box on her doorstep, saw the intruder put something on her window. He made a quick note with a pen, then turned and trotted away, feet audible on the steps. A moment later, a large box truck roared to life. Lisa dashed to the door just in time to see the brown 'UPS' truck grumbling down the road.

Still on alert, she opened her door carefully. An inocuous cardboard box rested on the porch, several barcoded labels stuck to the top and sides. On the door's window, a sticky note in UPS's brown and yellow corporate colors announced that the driver had _check_ left package _check_ no signature required _check_ 4:33pm _check_ no answer at door.

This was a quandary. What should she do? Open it—or not? Didn't some bombers use the mail or courier services to deliver their little packages of doom? She stared down at it, uncertain.

"Miss Reisert! Don't touch it yet!"

Lisa looked up in surprise to see a man in a grey suit and dark glasses jogging across the street toward her. Another similarly-dressed man paused to let a car go by on the street, then followed his partner at the same semi-hurried pace. They immediately examined the box, the first one motioning that she should back away while he inspected the markings. The partner looked around and spoke into a walkie-talkie. Beyond the warning to stay back, neither man paid much attention to Lisa.

She watched them, incredulous. "What the hell is all this?" she demanded. "Since when are Federal Agents just hanging around outside my door?"

The first agent ignored her, while the second muttered something into the radio and glanced her way. "Mr. Keefe instructed us to keep an eye on you, ma'am."

"Did he."

"It's ok, doesn't seem to be any kind of explosive," the first agent said. He sounded slightly disappointed. "I think it's legit."

"Thanks so much," Lisa snapped. "You can go now."

The first agent looked annoyed and a little hurt. "We're here for your protection, Miss Reisert. Mr. Keefe was very clear that you might be in danger from the folks who are after you."

"Well thank you for protecting me. I'll have a word with Mr. Keefe tomorrow about assigning watchdogs on me without letting me know they're even there."

The second agent had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry, Miss Reisert. But we need to check the package contents. If you don't mind?" He produced a pocketknife and pointed at the box. "Just because it's not explosive doesn't mean it's not dangerous."

She knew better than to argue. Still peeved, she threw up her hands in dismissal. "Sure, whatever. Go crazy."

A moment later, after another warning to stay back, the box was open and the bubble wrap removed. The two agents frowned down in confusion at the contents of the package, while Lisa found herself laughing.

Her purse and overnight bag lay inside, neatly arranged to form a cushion for a pair of familiar navy-blue designer shoes.

.-.-.-.-.

The agents had returned to their truck (or van or whatever they were using to stake out her house) over an hour ago when Lisa finally stopped giggling enough to unpack her things. She was thrilled to have them back, silly as it seemed; they were ordinary bags and nothing special, but they were hers and they'd gone through just about as much as she had on that wild chase. The shoes were simply a bonus, and they'd match the indigo dress Amanda had found for her.

It amused her further to think that she was becoming as fashion-conscious as Jackson, and further still when she realized she wasn't facing tomorrow with as much trepidation as she had only a few hours earlier. She wasn't sure if she should be worried about that.

When the rest was put away, Lisa turned her attention once more to the shoes. They didn't look any worse for the wear, thankfully. She found a box in which to store them and set them inside. Something rustled against her finger.

A note, tucked into the toe of one perfect shoe. _"You're welcome. –F"_

_Maybe tomorrow won't turn out too badly_, she thought, smiling at the paper. _After all, who ever said I was in this by myself?_

_.-.-.-.-.   
_

**AN: I promised I'd be continuing this fic, and here you go. I know this chapter is abysmally short, but rather than wait to make it longer for the sake of making it longer, I figured you'd rather I post and live up to my word. ;)**

**Since the last update, this is what I've done:**

**Lost my awesome Granddad :(**

**Saw my baby sister get her Master's Degree from Dartmouth**

**Made an historic colonial costume for my Grandma for DAR**

**Attended my first anime/gaming/webcomic/fantasy/whatever convention**

**Worked at said convention**

**Staffed said convention**

**Survived said convention**

**Experienced a computer hard drive crash that took me out of commission for a couple of weeks**

**Experienced a monitor crash (days after replacing the HDD) that took me out of commission for over a month**

**Started teaching an Adult Ed knitting class locally**

**Been sick**

**Started working as a nanny for a friend**

**Worked on a large art commission and several smaller ones**

**Worked on a novel**

**Started a new art series**

**Designed a host of characters for a friend's story**

**And a bunch of other stuff that seems to fill my days. Sorry for the long wait, my dears, but I promise I'll have more soon.**

**CG**


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